Bloodline
by balmorhea
Summary: Walburga's dying wish was to find out what happened to her favorite son, and so she sends her illegitimate granddaughter to the only living relative who might know what became of him. Miram's journey for the truth drives the Order deep into the heart of Voldemort's most precious secret, which has become inexplicably tied with Regulus Black's fate.
1. Chapter 1

**Title** : Bloodline

 **Warnings** : Manipulative Dumbledore, some changes to the timeline regarding dates and ages of periphery characters, frequent swearing/smoking/drinking/mentions of sex and/or sexual relationships (no slash)

 **Genre** : General/Friendship/Drama

 **Main Characters** : OC/Miram Fawcett, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Harry Potter

 **Summary** : Walburga's dying wish was to find out what happened to her favorite son, and so she sends her illegitimate granddaughter to the only living relative who might know what became of him. Reaching dead end after dead end, Miram is determined to find her father, even if it means walking right into the hands of Voldemort himself. Meanwhile, after the incident in the Chamber of Secrets, Dumbledore takes a more proactive approach to prevent Lord Voldemort's return by enlisting the help of an absent ex-convict and a werewolf. Miram's journey for the truth drives the Order deep into the heart of Voldemort's most precious secret, which has become inexplicably tied with Regulus Black's fate.

 **Author's Note** : This story is told from the point of view of my own character Miram Fawcett, Sirius Black, and occasionally of Harry Potter. The story opens in the summer of 1993. As I listed under the warnings section, some minor details have been changed in this fanfic, including the ages of minor/secondary characters and the death dates of specific Black family members. Dumbledore is also written with a more proactive, manipulative nature to coincide with his mission to eradicate Dark Magic. Sirius and Remus's friendship is very broken in this story, as I've always thought that the amount of damage and mistrust they endured ought to have a bigger impact; they will, of course, become friends again-they just have to work for it. Sirius himself deals with a very sensationalized reputation, mostly at the fault of the powerful influence of the media. Finally, I've written this story about teenagers so the characters will reflect that; Miram's POV will be immature at times, and there will be frequent mention of smoking/drinking/sex/potions that act like drugs, though it will never exceed the T rating.

* * *

Chapter one:

The air was oppressively thick and dulled Miram's senses with each breath. The cheap air conditioner on the Greyhound bus rattled away pathetically, and Miram felt unpleasantly gummy in her clothing. Any time she adjusted her position, she had to unstick herself from the bus seat and resist the urge to yank out her wand and attempt a Cooling Charm. She knew to expect the heat and so had worn the absolute minimum amount of clothing she felt comfortable in, but even her own skin felt too thick on her bones. The muggles on the bus all had the same dazed, sleepy expression and matching sleeveless tops with various patterns and cartoon prints. Miram spent the first several hours watching them come and go, entertaining themselves with paperback novels and newspapers. Whenever the oversized bus pulled over at a new stop, a few shuffled off gratefully and were replaced by another sun-tanned face in sunglasses.

Miram turned to look out the dirty window to watch the scenery flash past—always the same low hills and scattered Longleaf Pine. They passed towns with names like Tuskegee and Tallassee, and the constant postings for food (Waffle House), petrol (Lover's) and the occasional religious threat ("Go to church or the Devil will get you!"). As the bus drove further and further south, a few palm trees began to creep out from the constant wall of pine. By the time the bus finally reached Mobile, Alabama at four in the afternoon, the overbright sky was dulled by a thin veil of clouds and a mild, hot breeze gave relief from the oppressive humidity. Miram stepped off the bus carefully, holding her overstuffed duffle bag in front of her like a shield. She could feel her wand inside, and had to resist the urge to pull it out for safety.

This part of town was a good fifteen minutes from the scenic downtown waterfront and looked oddly barren in comparison. Telephone wires ran criss-cross in every direction, and even the buildings looked squat and deflated. What was truly alarming was just how _wide_ everything seemed. Few cars dotted the cracked Government Road, but there were still two lanes to each side and the road appeared endless. Miram wiped her brow with the back of her arm and hoisted her bag further up her shoulder before entering the bus station. It was easily thirty degrees cooler inside, and the blast of air conditioning made Miram's sweat dry on her skin instantly.

She stepped around the various muggles and their bags, heading for the far side for a pay-telephone. She had a pocket full of American muggle currency, which felt light and tiny compared to the heavy Galleons and Sickles she was used to. A well-worn directory sat on a shelf beneath the phone, and Miram skimmed through the sections on dentists and exterminators before finding a number for a local taxi. She counted out her coins carefully, making sure she stuck the right ones into the phone before dialing the long trail of numbers. She held the receiver to her head hesitantly. "Er, yes, hello," she said when the other line picked up. "I need a cab, please."

"What's your current address, ma'am?" came the slow, sleepy drawl on the opposite line. Miram suddenly felt conscious of her own foreign accent, which sounded clipped and sharp and entirely out of place compared to the smooth, drawn-out syllables of the taxi dispatcher.

"I'm, er, at the Greyhound on…Government Road?" she said, phrasing the last part like a question. She couldn't help but look over her shoulder as she spoke, as though some nosey American muggle was eavesdropping and could confirm the bus station's location.

"Ma'am, are there no more cabs outside?"

"Huh?"

"Outside the station, ma'am, when you first got there."

Miram peered across the mostly-empty station and through the enormous front windows. Outside sat a few stationary cars, but no distinct black cab. "Er, what do they look like?" she asked, squinting as she attempted to read the writing on the side of the yellow one.

"Well, they're awful bright, hard to miss," came the woman's voice. Miram imagined her rolling her eyes at the ignorant foreigner.

"Yellow?"

"Yessum." A contraction of what Miram took to be "yes, ma'am."

"Right—er, okay, well thanks for your help," Miram rushed to say before slamming down the phone. She scooped up her bag and turned on her heel for the front door again. Walking outside was like walking into the sun, and the temperature change hit Miram like a fist. She wiped the damp hair from her eyes and apprehensively approached the nearest yellow car. The driver rolled down the passenger side window and peered out at her.

"You goin' somewhere?"

"Yes," said Miram, bending low so she could see the cab driver's face. He was very dark-skinned, with a crop of short hair and a wide, calm face. "Er, here," she said, fidgeting around for a piece of parchment in her pocket. In her grandmother's delicate scrawl was the address she had carried for almost ten years. "I'm looking for Bromley Road in…Blakely?"

"Toward Blakely, you say? Well, sure, miss, I can get you there, no trouble."

Miram smiled in relief. "Great," she said, opening the back door and throwing her bag in before climbing in herself.

The cab driver turned one of the air conditioning vents toward Miram before peeling out of the sun-dried parking lot and heading back on the highway toward the downtown area. There were low bridges everywhere, traveling for enormous lengths over the bay waters. Miram stared out the window at the scenery flashing past. Scattered islands covered in longleaf pine were surrounded by sparkling water, and the roads weaved in between seamlessly. The highway turned back onto mainland, and the cab driver quickly took them onto seldom-used roads that mirrored the narrow lanes she was accustomed to at home. Low forest surrounded them on both sides, deep green, grey and gold.

"Whereabouts on Bromley Road, ma'am?" the cab driver asked after several silent minutes.

Miram looked at the parchment she was still clutching in her fist. It was soft from the humidity, and Miram had to be careful not to tear it. "House number's twenty-two, nineteen. Bromley Road."

The cab driver turned a sharp right and they went deeper into the forest. Webs of Spanish moss hung from the trees, and in some places, almost took over. The road was narrower, winding tightly through turns. There were no painted lane markers anymore, and all the side streets were hidden and unmarked, like the town had given up naming anything this far out. The cab slowed to a crawl before stopping alongside a weather-worn blue mailbox that sat crooked in its post. Glued to the rusty side were the faded numbers "2219."

"Visiting family?" the cab driver asked kindly, turning the car into park.

"Something like that," Miram responded.

"Well, he's about the only man I know in all of Mobile County with an accent to match yours. We don't get outsiders down here much, and especially not from overseas. Whereabouts you from?"

"London," Miram replied truthfully, collecting her duffle bag. Her heart was beating rapidly against her chest as adrenaline flooded her veins. She had methodically planned out every step of her trip down here, from the muggle airfare to the bus schedule and the currency exchange—but when it came to knocking on Sirius Black's door, she had no idea what to do beyond winging it. She had always figured tracking down a man who didn't want to be found would be the hardest part; and while Black had certainly hidden his tracks well, breaking the ice seemed so much more intimidating.

"London!" the cab driver exclaimed. "Now there's a place I ain't never been to! Shoot, I ain't never travelled further north than Georgia. God's honest truth. What's it like in London?"

Miram pulled her bag over her shoulder and thought for a moment. "Cold and grey, at least compared to here. And big. Lots of people."

The cab driver had a bemused expression on his face. Chuckling, he added, "You a brave soul to be travelling so far on your own, missy. Now, you get on in to your destination and have yourself a rest."

"Thank you," Miram said gratefully, almost overwhelmed by the man's open kindness. No one was so warm or forward in London, and especially not with strangers. The cab peeled away slowly, gravel crunching underneath the tires. Miram watched it drive away before taking a deep breath of humid air and stepping forward.

An enormous oak tree stood at the foot of the drive, ribbons of Spanish moss over a meter long hanging from its thick, twisted branches. The grass was overgrown but free of too many weeds, and surrounding the property was a protective wall of oaks and pines. There was a loud buzzing in the air, almost obnoxiously so. Miram wiped her brow with the back of her arm and looked up at the house, which was propped up on ten-foot poles. An enormous veranda wrapped around the house, and a wide, almost crooked set of stairs led to the hard, dusty ground beneath. Standing at the top of the stairs, waiting, was Black.

"Can I help you?" came a guarded voice, the elegant received pronunciation inflected with the faintest southern drawl.

Miram froze, suddenly not ready to face Black. But he was standing on his porch, bare arms crossed and a small knit between his grey eyes—the same eyes Miram inherited, a recessive vestige of Walburga's blood.

"Er, yes," she said breathlessly, wiping her brow again and adjusting the weight of her bag on her shoulder. She could feel beads of sweat dripping down her spine and tried to ignore how unpleasant it felt. "My name is Miram Fawcett, and I believe I've been looking for you."

Black's grey eyes narrowed, and he seemed to become as still as a statue. For a long moment Miram was sure he wasn't going to speak at all, but then he said in clipped, irritated tones, "My house is Unplottable, which means you would not have been able to actively search for it unless you already knew where to look. And considering the location of my home is known to only very, _very_ few wizards, I wonder how you managed to come all the way here alone at all."

Miram stood up straighter. "I am alone," she insisted. "I got the address from my Grandmother before she passed."

"I doubt that very much," Black said smoothly, irritation evident in his voice. "Your methods aside, I do not accept visitors. You can see yourself off my property immediately." He turned on his heel to leave, but Miram wasn't discouraged.

"I'm not leaving," she called out defiantly, taking a few brave steps forward. Black paused and turned to look at her over his shoulder. "I came all the way out here because I need your help."

Black rolled his eyes. "Then unfortunately it was a waste of your time. Now, if you don't leave—"

"I'm looking for my father!" Miram blurted.

Black's face was one of definite surprise, but he quickly schooled his features back into place. "Then you're more lost than you think," was the cool reply.

"Not you," Miram rushed to say. She waved her hand awkwardly into the open air, as though someone would jump out from behind the trees to explain. "Your brother…Regulus…he was my father."

Something unreadable flitted across Black's tanned face. Miram saw his tense shoulders slump a few inches, his body involuntarily turn toward her a few degrees. With a great effort, he collected himself back together and turned toward the door. "My brother has no children."

"That you know of!" Miram rushed to say, stepping forward until she was at the bottom of the warped wooden stairs. " _He_ may not have even known about me, so why would anyone else?"

"Get off my property," Black called over his shoulder.

"You're the only one I can talk to! The rest of that family is dead or doesn't know anything! Look, Walburga gave me your address years ago, before she passed away—"

Black turned sharply on his heel and marched to the edge of the veranda. "Get off my property, or I will make you," he hissed, pointing toward the empty, narrow street. "Don't come here again."

"But-!"

A sudden force shoved Miram backwards, almost knocking her off her feet. She took several uncertain steps before she regained her balance, her bag dropping off her shoulder in the process. Alarmed, she looked back up at Black, who had turned on his heel and slammed the door shut. "Bloody fucking arsehole," Miram muttered under her breath, straightening up. "I'm not leaving until you talk to me!" she shouted to the silent house.

In the distance, a low grumbling rolled across the sky.

Miram threw her bag roughly onto the ground and sat down on top of it, crossing her arms defiantly. Within minutes the low breeze had picked up and the sky darkened to a deep greenish-grey. The air was warm and full of static, and Miram kept brushing locks of hair out of her face. It was obvious a storm was approaching quickly, but Black wouldn't dare make her sit outside all night.

Thick raindrops began to fall between the trees, and quickly picked up momentum until it was like being under a waterfall. Miram had never seen so much rain. Within seconds Miram's clothes were soaked through, and she could barely keep her eyes open against the rain. It was strangely warm, and while Miram had expected to freeze in the storm, it wasn't unlike being fully-dressed in a shower. She certainly wasn't in danger in this temperature, so maybe Black would, in fact, wait her out.

"Fuuuuuck," she moaned under her breath. She picked up her muddy bag from the puddles forming around her ankles and looked around for shelter. It was tempting to sit in the open where Black could see her, but a loud crack of thunder convinced her otherwise. Miram ducked her head against the onslaught of rain and darted for shelter underneath Black's house. She nestled into the seat of an old lawnmower, hanging her bag off the end. Miram wiped the rain from her face and looked around at the odds and ends Black had piled underneath his house. There was some more unfamiliar metal equipment and a stack of boards nestled under a bright blue plastic cover. A couple of forgotten hand tools, a roll of chicken wire, and a stack of cracked ceramic planter pots. Nothing out of the ordinary at any given muggle house, which was especially odd given Black's status as a wizard.

Miram's stomach began to growl and her head feel heavy. It was hard to estimate the time in the middle of the storm, but Miram knew sunset didn't fall until after eight. Her clothes and belongings were soaked, but it wasn't cold, and she could probably get away with sleeping in the seat of the lawnmower if she had to.

Overhead the lights suddenly came on, and Miram froze, wondering if Black was coming down the stairs. She waited, trying to listen for any sound over the rain beating against the surrounding trees, but there was nothing. Miram settled herself back into her curled up position and yawned. Time had passed, but it was impossible to differentiate between twenty minutes and a full hour when all Miram was doing was waiting.

"Grab your bag, get up!"

Miram's eyes shot open and she jumped, almost smacking the top of her head in the process. Black was standing in the flooded grass, black hair soaked and plastered to his head. His hands were on his hips, and his face was set in a permanent scowl.

Miram sat up hesitantly, unsure if Black was inviting her in or attempting to kick her out.

"I'm not standing out here all night!" Black yelled over a roar of thunder. Lightning flashed again, followed by more thunder. The storm was drawing closer and growing worse. Even if Miram didn't freeze, it looked like she might very well drown. She grabbed her bag and clumsily climbed off the lawnmower, following Black quickly through the torrential rain and to the front steps of the veranda. Her feet splattered in the deep puddle that threatened to form a lake and overtake most of the yard, and her feet felt slick and slimy in their sandals.

The porch lights were on, as well as the lamps inside the house, inviting Miram in.

Black shut the screen door behind them but left the main one open. He grabbed Miram's bag without a word and disappeared through a doorway across the room, leaving Miram to stand in the unfamiliar living room alone. It was cozy enough and clearly well lived-in by a man. The couches didn't match and there was no rhyme or reason to the organization of the furniture. A large knit blanket hung over the end of the nearest sofa, and there was a pile of tackling and fishing line sitting on the other. There was a great deal of artwork and books, but no apparent trend to either. The pictures were a mix of muggle photographs and mismatched paintings, and the books ranged from boating manuals and plant identification to novels and a few old Hogwarts textbooks shoved in a far corner.

Black returned a moment later, pulling a dry shirt over his shoulders. He was without the duffle bag, but he had a large, threadbare towel in his hands. Black handed it to Miram wordlessly, passing her to slip through a different doorway, which was wider and more inviting than the other. Miram hesitated before following, her sandals making an unpleasant squelching noise with each step.

The doorway led to a narrow dining room, which seemed to function as Black's oversized closet and storage room more than anything else. Beyond that was a kitchen, where Black was busying himself with a kettle and mugs. Miram took a seat at the small wooden table in the kitchen corner hesitantly, running the towel down the lengths of her dark hair, the same brownish-black as the man's in front of her.

Black had brushed his wet hair out of his eyes and kicked off his saturated sandals. Black handed Miram a mug of tea and took one for himself, but didn't sit across from her at the table. Instead Black stood distantly by the edge of the sink, tea on the counter next to him. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, blowing the smoke out the open window behind him. Outside the rain was beating loudly against the roof, but the noise was dulled in the safety of Black's house.

"Can I have one?" Miram asked without any real conviction, watching Black take a drag.

He ignored her. "How old are you?"

"Fourteen. How old are you?"

"Does your family know you're here?"

"Well, your family and my family are kind of the same," said Miram, maintaining eye contact. Now that she had a better look at Black, she could see that he was a very handsome man, and wondered if her father had looked the same. "And they're all dead."

"What about your mother?" he asked, unfazed.

"She's dead, too."

"So who takes care of you?"

"I do."

Black snorted at that. "Right. I'm sure you're very capable, but I know for a fact Dumbledore would not allow a student to live on their own at fourteen."

"How do you know I'm a witch?" Miram tested, taking a sip from her mug. "Maybe Dumbledore has no say over me."

"Are you telling me you're a Squib, then?" Black replied lightly. "I doubt my mother would have given you my address if you were."

Miram shrugged, setting her mug back down on the table. "All right then, yes. I am a witch."

Black took another drag off his cigarette, watching her with a scrutinizing expression. "Who is your mother?"

Miram clenched and unclenched her jaw before clearing her throat. She stared at the steam rising from her mug as she spoke. "Her name was Judat. Half English, half Jordanian. She was a Squib. Maybe that's why you never knew your pureblooded brother had a bastard child," she added, shooting a glance up at Black's silent face. "It's also why no one in the Black family will help me find my father. Walburga only agreed to give me your address because she was dying and—I don't know, maybe she got less bigoted in the end. Still wouldn't accept me as her blood, though."

"Regulus is dead," Black replied bluntly. "He's been dead for as long as you've been alive."

Miram turned her gaze back to the table in front of her. "I know everyone says that. But loads of people went missing during the war—it doesn't mean he's dead—"

"Yes it does," said Black sharply. "I assure you, he died a long time ago."

"Did they ever find his body?" Miram challenged. "Or any evidence that says he's actually dead, rather than just missing?"

Black sighed, taking another long inhale off his cigarette. He was silent for a long moment, staring at nothing in particular. Miram watched him carefully, taking in his appearance and wondering how much he might resemble her father. Black was tall, taller than Miram had anticipated, and rather lean. His skin was browned from the sun, but he had the look of having once been very fair. His wet dark hair was pushed out of his eyes messily, eyes which had the peculiar look of belonging to someone much older than he was. Black flicked his ash into the sink, then said, "So you think he's alive—how do I play into this scenario?"

Miram adjusted in her seat. "I need you to help me find him."

Black actually let out a humorless laugh at that.

"Don't you want to know what happened to your bother?" Miram challenged, angry. "He's your family!"

"He's _dead_ ," Black replied bluntly, setting his tea mug down loudly. "I know you want to grab on to this fantasy where he's just living abroad with amnesia, but you need to get it through your head—he's _dead_. That's it. No great mystery, no case of mistaken identity. That's the end of it. People die in wars all the time, and he was one of them."

Miram could feel angry tears welling up in the back of her eyes, but she refused to let them drop. "How can you be so cruel?" she demanded. "To just give up on your loved ones and accept that the worst happened to them?"

Black flicked his cigarette out the window before lighting another one. He took a long drag then fixed Miram with a stern look. "I've known plenty of people who died—some I wish who hadn't, and others whose places I would trade in a heartbeat if I could... But there's no point thinking about the what-ifs. Death is the only guarantee, and you'll make yourself mad trying to come up with exceptions."

Miram bit her lower lip, staring at nothing in particular—at anything but at Black.

Black sighed unhappily, casting a dark look around his own kitchen. "You can stay here tonight," he finally said, rubbing a hand over tired eyes. "I'll take you to the airport tomorrow."

Miram balked at that. "I'm not going back to London—"

"I don't much care where you decide to go, but you're not staying here," Black replied. "I'll grab some blankets and dry clothes for you to wear tonight. Help yourself to whatever's in the kitchen, but mind you stay away from the alcohol."

"You're just kicking me out?" Miram demanded, turning in her seat to watch Black exit the kitchen. She knew that Black was a total stranger, but he was technically her uncle, and Miram had hoped curiosity alone was enough to persuade him.

"Yes, because you're not my responsibility," Black replied evenly from somewhere that sounded far off. Miram heard footsteps ascending a flight of stairs and listened as Black searched for something upstairs. Several silent minutes passed before Black returned. He set a pillow and some sheets on the cleanest of the two couches, setting a pair of faded sweatpants and an old t-shirt on top. "Bathroom's down the hall," Black added without looking at Miram. "There's a linen closet there."

"Just give me one week," Miram pleaded. "And then I'll leave and never bother you again."

Black groaned, looking genuinely pained by her persistence. "I can't help you!" he said impatiently. "I've already told you—"

"I can look for him on my own," Miram interrupted. "But I need a place to start. All I know from my mother was my father's name, which led me to Walburga before she died, and she led me to you. If you don't help me, that's the end of it for me!"

Black fixed Miram with a pointed look. "Goodnight."

Miram groaned loudly as she heard Black ascend the stairs. A door shut somewhere in the house, leaving Miram alone with her thoughts and the sound of the storm raging outside. She would have to offer something to Black to get him to talk, but she didn't know what the man could possibly want. She didn't have much money, but perhaps Black would be willing to accept a different kind of currency… Miram sighed, getting up from her place at the table and walking toward her makeshift bed. She ran her fingers over the clothes Black had set out for her before holding them up to examine. The sweatpants would be far too long, but the t-shirt ought to fit well enough. Black was very tall, but he was also rather slim, while Miram had inherited her mother's softer physique.

Miram took the clothes and searched the first floor for a bathroom, examing Black's possessions as she went. There was a decent amount of clutter and projects in varying stages of completion, but there was also a distinct lack of photographs or any sign that Black had friends or family at all. Miram was beginning to wonder if Black lived the life of a hermit; he was certainly anti-social enough.

The bathroom was unusually large relative to the small size of the house, with an old claw-footed tub on one side and a linen closet and deep sink on the other. Miram found two old toothbrushes and some boring toiletries in the cabinet, and towels of various colors and textures in the linen closet. There really wasn't anything personal lying around, which Miram had hoped to use to gauge Black's character. The toilet paper was a decent thickness, and the rugs on the floor were worn thin, but clean. Inside the tub was a half-empty bottle of shampoo and generic white bar soap. Nothing stood out at all. It was all predictable and bland.

Miram struggled with the tap before giving up and pointing her wand at it. The pipes sputtered into life and the bathroom quickly filled with steam. Miram helped herself to Black's shampoo but felt weird using his soap. With a shower out of the way and no clever ideas on hand to get Black to talk, Miram returned to the makeshift bed in the silent living room. She laid out the sheets and pulled the nearby wool blanket over herself and stared up at the dark ceiling.

* * *

Miram squinted against the harsh morning light, surprised she had managed to fall asleep at all after tossing and turning most of the night. She could hear Black moving around in the kitchen, the smell of coffee sharpening her senses. Miram sat up stiffly, hastily combing her fingers through her messy hair—unbelievably still damp—before joining her wayward uncle in the kitchen.

"Coffee?" Black offered neutrally, barely looking at her.

"Er, sure," said Miram, setting herself down in the same seat as the night before. Black filled a second mug and set it down in front of her alongside a carton of half and half. Miram glanced around for some sugar, but saw none. She didn't feel comfortable asking Black for anything more when she was already struggling to get information out of him, so she drank the bitter coffee without it. "I was thinking," she said bravely. Black's gaze flitted toward her suspiciously before he settled himself against the sink again. "of a trade. Let me stay here for just a day or two—tell me about my father. And in return…I'll give you whatever you want." She ended this last part of her sentence carefully, her voice light and suggestive.

"I don't want anything from you," said Black dismissively. Then he quickly added, "Except for you to go back to England. And that rather defeats the purpose of your trade."

"How about something else?" Miram asked, pulling her hair over her shoulder so that nothing obscured her front. She bit back the disgust she felt at the idea of trading herself for information, but if it got Black talking, then so be it.

Black took a long sip of coffee, dark brows knitted together. "Sorry?"

Miram sighed in exasperation. "Myself—you can do whatever you want—"

Black choked on his coffee, shooting Miram a stunned look before setting his mug on the counter and drying off his hands. "You're fourteen!" he said, sounding disgusted. He ran his hands over his tired face, shaking his head.

"What else could you want?" Miram demanded, her chest deflating. "Money? Indentured servitude?"

"I don't want anything other than for you to go away and never tell anyone where I live," said Black roughly.

Miram wasn't deterred. "How about I promise not to tell anyone where you are if you give me the information I need?"

Black gave her an exasperated look, planting his hands on his hips. "You're blackmailing me?"

Miram shrugged.

"If that's the case, then I'll obliviate your memory and put you on a plane myself."

"Why are you being such a jerk?" Miram demanded, flustered. "Would it really kill you to help me out? We're technically family, you know."

"The Blacks aren't my family," said Black dismissively. "And you're better off not having them as yours, either."

"So I should just settle for having no family at all, because you said so?"

"Look," said Black in tones of forced calm. He had moved so he was gripping the back of the empty chair and could face Miram directly. "I really am sorry to hear about you losing your mother, but you're asking me to send you on a wild hippogriff chase. What happens when you get proof that my brother is dead?" he asked, not unkindly. "Do you have _any_ idea what it's like?" He sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Nevermind…the point is, you're a child and I'm not going to help you build up this false hope. My brother is dead, and has been for nearly fourteen years. The sooner you accept it, the sooner you can move on with your life."

Miram swallowed a lump that had formed in her throat. "My mum always said I looked like him," she said quietly. "But that's all I've got of him. If he really is dead like you say…well, it won't be the first time a parent's died. I can live with it."

Black sighed heavily, hanging his head and staring at the floor.

"I can repay you," Miram continued quickly, hoping she was finally wearing Black down. "I mean, aren't you curious about what's been going on back home? Like your old friends or family? We could…trade information. I could find out practically anything you wanted, and report back, and no one would know."

"I don't care what they're doing," Black told the floor.

"Not any of them?" Miram countered. "I'm pretty sure you're the heir to all the Black money, and it's just sitting there—"

"I don't care."

"Your friends?"

Black gave a cold, humorless chuckle. "My friends watched me sit in Azkaban for three years," he said, fixing Miram with a dark look before straightening up and collecting his coffee mug from the counter.

Miram wracked her brain for other angles. Black seemed intent on fighting her every step of the way. If Miram was going to get what she needed, then she would have to play dirty. "What about Harry Potter?"

Black froze.

"You were friends with the Potter family," she continued carefully, staring at Black's rigid back. "I did some research on you before I came out here," she added by way of explanation. "And I read all about the Potters, and how their son survived. We go to school together… maybe you want to know about him?"

Black re-filled his coffee without turning to her and swept silently from the room. Miram sat stock still, but followed Black with her peripheral vision. She heard the front screen door open and close loudly.

Miram let out a long, shaky breath. Her heart was beating furiously against her chest. It was cruel to bring up Harry Potter like she had done, but if it prevented Miram from returning to London empty-handed, then so be it. She drank her coffee in silence, waiting for Black to return, but he never did. Miram leaned over in her seat, peering through the living room toward the front door. She could see just the edge of Black's shoulder in the doorway.

Miram hesitated before getting to her feet. She refilled her coffee cup, but took care to search silently through Black's cabinets until she found the sugar. She stepped quietly through the living room, stepping lightly as though there was a dying person in the house. She pushed the screen door open tentatively, but Black didn't turn around. He was sitting on the edge of the veranda, coffee and cigarette in one hand and his forehead resting in the palm of the other.

Miram sat down close by, but careful to keep a good two or three foot space between the two of them. She took a sip of her coffee, almost stunned by how quickly the morning heat hit her now that she was out of the safety of the air-conditioned house. The loud buzzing from the previous day was back, a sort of electrical current running through the humid air.

"I'm sorry if…I offended you," she said awkwardly, squinting out across Black's property. Longleaf pine and oaks seemed to stretch for miles, but she knew it wasn't too far until the land turned to bayou. "But I'm very serious about what I want, and I'm serious about making it even, if that's what you want. It's just…" she hesitated, unsure of how to explain herself without sounding too mushy or else too cold. "If I were you, I would be curious. So that's why I laid it out on the table."

"I haven't seen Harry since the night his parents died," Black said quietly. His head was still in the palm of his hand, and he was staring at a katydid walking around on one of the porch steps. "I'm not allowed to. There's an order of protection against me."

Miram's brows knit together as her frown deepened. "Why?" she asked bluntly, unable to imagine a reason.

Black remained still, but turned his gaze up to her. "Just because you're innocent of a crime, it doesn't mean it ever leaves you. The wizarding world still thinks I'm guilty, and that's the part that matters."

"But they released you from Azkaban," Miram said, still frowning. "I don't get—"

"They released me on a technicality, and because my family are all judges and politicians," said Black, straightening up and taking a hit off his cigarette before stubbing it out. He blew out a trail of smoke, then added, "Besides, I'm still a murderer."

Miram felt her body stiffen, and her hair stood up on end on the back of her neck in spite of the heat.

Black looked over at her, sensing the shift in her mood. "Surely you read about that in your research?"

"Then it's true?" she asked carefully. "Pettigrew?"

Black fixed her with a level gaze. He had the same dark, wavy hair and pale grey eyes. His skin was tanned from years in the sun, but there were still haunted shadows lining his handsome face. It unnerved Miram how much she looked like him. "Yes, it is," he said calmly before turning back to look over the expanse of forest in front of them. There was something guarded about his features, but Miram couldn't explain it with the casual way he spoke.

"Do you still want my help, now? Knowing what I am?" he asked after a few minutes.

"It doesn't change anything," said Miram determinedly.

"It doesn't?" Black asked evenly, turning to look at her. "You're staying in the house of a killer. Don't you want to know why I did it?"

Miram returned Black's level gaze, determined not to let uncertainty show on her face. "No offense, but I came here to learn about my father, not you."

Black let out a low chuckle at that, taking a sip of coffee. "Fair point."

"So does that mean you'll help me?" Miram asked eagerly.

Black seemed to think about it for several minutes, occasionally sipping his coffee. Beads of sweat were forming on Miram's skin, and her borrowed sweatpants were growing far too warm for comfort. But she would wait it all out in exchange for Black's answer.

"I'll give you two days," he finally said. "And I will only answer the questions that I want to. If you're going to try to search for a missing person, then I can't help you."

"I just want to know what he was like," Miram rushed to say, excitement flooding her veins.

"In exchange, you have to answer a few questions of mine," Black continued, standing up. "Go get dressed. Your bag's in the laundry room down the hall."

Miram turned to watch him head inside. "Where are we going?" she asked, frowning.

"I don't do business at home," he said, opening the screen door. "Be ready in ten minutes."

Miram scrambled to her feet, rushing past Black in his own house toward the laundry room. Her previously soaked duffle bag and its contents were inside the dryer. She yanked out the first t-shirt and pair of shorts she could get her hands on, slamming the dryer door shut and changing her clothes on the spot. She snatched up her shoulder bag that Black had set aside, rummaging inside for her notebook and pens, testing them for functionality before rushing back into the living room to wait for Black.

"I'm ready," she announced, barely thirty seconds after they had been sitting on the porch together.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter two:

"What is this place?" Miram asked, eyebrows raised as she looked around.

"The staple of breakfast houses," Black replied, picking up a plastic menu and glancing over it.

Miram looked over her shoulder at the handful of other occupants, most of which were plump older men sitting at the bar, chatting casually with the cook and waitress. The tables were painted the same bright yellow as the roof outside, and the menus were equally colorful. She picked hers up, recognizing most of the side items but not the main courses. "I don't know what to get," she mumbled, more to herself than to Black.

He looked up at her. "You really can't go wrong," he offered indifferently, shrugging.

Black had driven them to one of the thousands of Waffle Houses Miram had passed on her long bus ride to Mobile, insisting they should eat breakfast before getting to business.

"But we can't exactly talk in here," Miram had complained when they pulled into the cracked parking lot. "It's full of muggles, isn't it?"

"You've got two days—is half an hour going to kill you?" Black had asked.

 _Yes,_ Miram thought grumpily, following Black inside.

"I didn't know you had a daughter!"

Black and Miram both turned to see the waitress approach them, full coffeepot in hand. She filled Black's without question before offering some to Miram.

"She's my niece, actually, visiting all the way from London," Black said, offering a charming smile. Miram shot him a questioning shook his head infinitesimally before offering her a tight smile.

"My, aren't you just beautiful?" the waitress exclaimed, looking Miram up and down. Miram felt unsure under the waitress's blunt praise, shooting another look at Black before smiling.

"Er, thank you."

"Well, I suppose you would, seeing what a handsome man your uncle is," she added, laughing as she laid a plump hand down on Black's shoulder momentarily. Black smiled at her before saying, "Just the usual, Lottie."

"And for you, missy?" the waitress asked, turning back to Miram.

"Uh, eggs and toast, please."

"How d'you like your eggs, dear?"

"Over easy?" she said, phrasing it like a question.

"And white or wheat toast?"

"Er—wheat."

The waitress scooped up the menus and offered them a wide, friendly smile. "I'll just be right back with your food."

"You look confused," Black observed after a moment, sipping his coffee.

Miram shrugged, searching the table for the sugar. "Everyone's so…nice. And friendly, like we're all best friends. It's not a bad thing," she added quickly. "But it's kind of weird."

Black gave her a bemused smile. "Yeah, it took me a moment to get used to when I first came down here."

"Why did you choose Mobile, Alabama?" Miram asked, a skeptical eyebrow raised. "Of all the places in the world?"

Black shrugged. "I didn't actively seek it out, but when I got here, it seemed as good a place as any," he said vaguely. "No one asks questions—"

Miram snorted. "All they _do_ is ask questions—"

"Well, sure," said Black, smiling faintly. "But never the wrong ones—never 'what are you doing here' or 'have you ever been to prison.' It's all very friendly, which is quite different from suspicious and probing, which is all I ever got in Europe. I was too easily recognized. Down here no one cares so long as you stay off each other's property and mind your manners."

Miram tapped a finger against her chin, looking around the diner. "How long have you lived here?"

"Long enough."

Miram looked at him.

"You said you weren't interested in learning about me," Black reminded her.

"Well, I'm just trying to make conversation, and it's not like we can talk about the reason I came here," she said carefully, keeping her voice low. Just then the waitress appeared with their food, and after a little bit of friendly back-and-forth banter, Miram turned to Black. "Okay, well how about for the sake of having something to talk about through breakfast, we learn a little bit about each other."

Black fixed her with an unreadable, level look. "What do you want to know?" he asked, sprinkling pepper on his hash browns.

Miram wracked her brain. In truth, the only things that really stood out were not appropriate conversation topics for a public muggle diner. "How old are you?"

"Thirty-four," he replied automatically.

"And how old would my father be?" Miram asked.

"Thirty-two next month. He was younger than me."

Miram did some quick mental math, and knew Black had already thought the same thing: Regulus Black had been eighteen when Miram was born, likely seventeen when her mother became pregnant. Not even out of school, yet. No wonder the Blacks shunned Miram and her Squib mother.

"What House were you in during school?"

"Gryffindor," came the short reply. "My brother and the rest of our family were in Slytherin," he added, already guessing Miram's next question. "And you?"

"Ravenclaw."

"Hmmm. I would have thought Gryffindor, or perhaps even Slytherin," Black mused.

Miram's brows knitted together. "Why?"

"You're rather headstrong, which is not a trait of a Ravenclaw," Black observed.

"Well, maybe I just don't belong in my House," Miram replied, spreading butter on her toast. She looked up and saw that Black was watching her with the same impenetrable gaze. He was studying her, that much Miram knew, but that's all she could gather from his expression. She was burning to ask him about his highly-publicized past, but knew Black wouldn't appreciate her bringing it up in the Waffle House.

Her research had been a whirlwind. There were hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of articles written about Sirius Black and his involvement with Voldemort, the Death Eaters, and his connection to the death of the Potters. The articles were heated and sensationalistic, full of anonymous quotes and wild speculation. Miram's mental image of Black had been one of an almost phantom-like figure, the heir of powerful people, and someone dangerous and unpredictable. She had imagined him to be dark and mysterious, but if she was honest, the man who sat in front of her was anything but. He was certainly an enigma, but only because his apparent dull lifestyle didn't match the information Miram had gathered on him. Sirius Black was almost two separate people; two separate lives on opposite sides of the world.

He had been arrested for a number of sensational charges: Death Eater activity, treason, conspiring to commit murder, assisting in the murder of his best friend's family, and finally the alleged murder of Peter Pettigrew. Thanks to his powerful family, none of the charges were able to stick to Black for long, and after three years he had been released from Azkaban with restrictions barring him from any real contact with the wizarding world in England. According to the papers, the death of Pettigrew had been ruled an accident in the end, but no one seemed to believe his death could be anything but murder.

Following a nasty three and a half years of legal battles, Black reportedly disappeared from wizarding Europe, and they were happy to see him go. There were no more publicized official investigations, only journalistic inquiries as to Black's most recent whereabouts and activities, all of which became increasingly bizarre over the years.

It wasn't until Miram's mother died five years ago that Miram knew her connection to the Black family at all. The issue of custody came up, and the Department of Child Services within the Ministry launched an inquiry to find Miram's father. Reaching dead end after dead end, it was finally Judat's sister who came forward and revealed the identity of Miram's father. Arcturus Black, the ailing patriarch of the family who was the driving force behind Sirius Black's release from Azkaban, vehemently denied Miram's connection to the family, claiming "The filthy Squib just wants to get her muggle hands on other people's wealth." In the end it was Walburga, suffering from a failing heart and a desire to see her fast-dwindling bloodline continue, who wrote to Miram, then only ten years old. She had given Miram the secret location of Sirius Black's whereabouts, with clear instructions to find what had become of her treasured son, Regulus. For four years Miram hung on to the lone letter, doing all the research she could on her alleged father and his absent ex-convict brother.

Four years of research that had led her to a muggle Waffle House in coastal Alabama, eating breakfast with one of the most feared men in wizarding Britain.

Miram took a sip of her coffee, studying Black. He still placed his silverware neatly on the edges of his plate, napkin folded next to him. It looked oddly formal in the diner they were in, but Miram supposed it was a habit drilled into him from the Black family.

"When did you meet James Potter?"

"I don't want to talk about James," came the short reply. He glanced up at her, then after a silent minute asked, "When did your mother pass?"

"I don't want to talk about her, either," Miram replied in the same tone.

It was silent again. The diner had filled up, filling the background with sleepy conversation and the constant sound of breakfast. They didn't speak again until they were back in the safety of Black's ancient, guttering truck. There was no air conditioning unit; instead an old fan was bolted to the dashboard. Miram rolled down her window, grateful for every second Black drove down the highway.

"Where are we going?" she asked after a few minutes.

"I've got some errands to run," Black replied, his hair blowing wildly in the breeze.

"And then we'll talk?"

Black shot her a half-glance. "Don't worry, I'll keep my word."

The highway wound past scenic downtown and continued to travel south-west. Black took an exit marked "Bayou La Batre," and took them through empty hills and longleaf pine forests before finally emerging in the smallest town Miram had ever seen. Did four single roads count as an entire town? There were hardly any trees out here, and the ground was as flat as a board. Black continued down the main road for several miles, then took a fork on the right that ended in a gravel parking lot. Nearby was an odd-looking shack surrounded by a large deck and a set of outdoor toilets. A large sign overhead read "Bayou Bait Shop." A few scattered vehicles were parked haphazardly, and Black parked the truck neatly among them.

"I'll just be a moment if you want to wait out here," Black offered, turning off the engine.

"Ugh, it's too hot to sit in here," Miram complained, getting out.

Black headed inside the bait shop, leaving Miram to assess their surroundings. Beyond the bait shop was marshy water and two long, neat rows of boats. Past the low bushes, Miram thought she could see open water. An American flag flapped in the breeze nearby, but it was otherwise mostly silent.

Black returned a few minutes later with two plastic sacks, one of which smelled like the sea. Miram had expected them to get back into the truck, but Black merely dug around in the back, sorting through plastic bins and buckets. Miram's hair kept flying in her face while she waited, so she finally tied it back in a frustrated braid.

Black straightened up silently, apparently done with whatever he had been doing for almost fifteen minutes. He picked up his wares and Miram followed, heading toward the docks.

"You have a boat?" Miram guessed.

"I used to have two," Black told her, stepping over the edge and holding out a hand for Miram to keep her balance. "but the other was destroyed in a hurricane a few years ago."

Miram looked around; Black's boat was significantly smaller than the large vessels moored nearby, and was without the oversized beams and rooms the others all had. Black stored his bags neatly in an empty bin before checking various components. Miram sat down tentatively, suddenly aware of the fact that she couldn't swim. Black turned the engine over, and the boat began to list from side to side.

"Don't look so frightened," Black told her, unable to hide the smile on his face. "I'm not going to capsize."

"I've never been on a proper boat before," Miram told him, gripping the side for safety. "And I don't know how to swim."

Black actually laughed at that. "You'll be fine," he said unconvincingly. He settled himself behind the wheel, lighting a cigarette before gently backing up. Miram watched the water churning violently around them, and couldn't help but imagine somehow falling into it and getting chopped into a million pieces by the propeller. Once the boat was facing the right direction, Black cruised out of the dock. He was moving gently, perhaps for Miram's sake. The bayou turned to open water after a few bends, and Miram—albeit still terrified—couldn't help but stare in awe of their surroundings. The water glittered like a field of jewels, a greenish blue expanse very unlike the grey seas of home.

Black looked very much at his ease navigating the open water, his hair blowing wildly around his head. He followed the outline of the shore, rounding a horn before leading the boat further out into the Gulf. After nearly twenty minutes of cutting across the bay, Black slowed the engine down and crept into marsh territory once more. Dead trees stood eerily in the bayou, draped with ribbons of moss. Marsh grass outlined where the sea became swamp, bordering scattered clumps of pine trees. Everything was cast in a golden hue and filled with the sound of birds flapping against the gentle water.

The engine was cut off, and Black quickly anchored the boat. The water was still enough that only their movements rocked the boat from side to side. Miram watched as Black worked a few metal cages out, carefully tying them to lines and tossing them overboard. He sat back down opposite Miram, propping his feet up and lighting a cigarette. "So what do you want to know about my brother?" he finally asked, weariness evident in his voice.

Miram brightened. "Everything," she said quickly. "Everything you can tell me." She pulled out her notebook and held her pen at the ready.

"What is that for?" Black asked.

"Notes," Miram replied. "So I don't forget anything."

Black looked out over the bayou surrounding them, which was admittedly beautiful once the shock of the humidity wore off. Miram couldn't think of a more peaceful, solitary place, and understood a bit better why Black chose to come out here. "He was born July sixteenth, nineteen sixty-one," Black finally said, his voice neutral. "He was our mother's second and last son—he was a hostile pregnancy, and so our mother was unable to have any more children after him." He shook his head at some distant memory. "Good thing, too. She was an awful excuse for a human being."

Miram was unsettled by the hardness in Black's voice, but didn't dare interrupt. She wrote down everything hastily, her handwriting growing progressively sloppier with each bullet point.

"He…was a quiet kid," Black continued slowly, frowning as he thought. "He was a year and a half younger than me, so I suppose he was always in my shadow—at first, anyway. Our parents always used to remark how soft he was—as children my mother hated it, but it grew to be his finest trait when we got older because he was easier to mold into the perfect son." Black sighed. He seemed to sense the bitterness in his voice, for then he said in careful tones, "We got along as children, but when I left for Hogwarts, everything shifted. I don't think there was a defining moment when we stopped getting along, it just sort of happened on its own. I went to Gryffindor, Regulus to Slytherin… I was the outcast in the family but still the heir, and I think it drove him nuts because he was the good pureblood who was always going to be in second place." He stole a glance at Miram before taking a few silent puffs on his cigarette. "We didn't get along much when we were at Hogwarts. In the end, we hardly exchanged two words with each other despite living in the same house. After I left school, I never really saw him again."

Miram adjusted her weight, surprised and excited by the openness in which Black talked about her father, even if it wasn't favorably.

"Sometimes I think if our parents had just shown that Regulus mattered more when we were younger, I might have had a bigger impression on him—or maybe if I wasn't so busy fighting everyone, I could have helped him," Black said, staring off into the bayou, a faraway look on his face. "It doesn't matter now," he added quickly. "He joined the Death Eaters."

Miram kept her mouth clamped shut at this sudden revelation, forcing herself to pay attention through her shock.

"Our family thought he was a right little hero for doing so—they were too cowardly to join themselves, you see, but they thought Voldemort—"

Miram jumped in spite of herself.

"—had the right idea. They were all for the purification of the wizarding race. There were rumors going around that Voldemort recruited students, so I'm not sure if that's when Regulus joined. That was the same year I left Hogwarts. In the years since, I heard rumors that he had joined the Death Eaters, but it wasn't until I got out of Azkaban that I found out he was dead."

Miram unstuck her throat. "How did he die?"

Black shrugged. "Murdered, likely," he said dully. "Maybe by Voldemort, but more likely on his orders—I doubt whether Regulus was ever important enough to be killed by Voldemort himself. From what I found out after he died, he panicked about what he was being asked to do and tried to back out. Well, you don't just hand in your resignation to the Death Eaters," he explained coolly. "It's a lifetime of service or death."

"So there's just rumors that he's dead?" Miram pressed. "Nothing concrete, like a body, or-?"

"I know what you're thinking, and don't," Black warned her, shooting her a stern look. "Besides, my grandfather received all of Regulus's accounts and possessions once the Ministry declared him dead."

"Walburga didn't seem to think he was dead," Miram told him carefully, twirling her pen between her fingers.

Black straightened up, giving her a long look. "Speaking of—when did you meet my mother?"

"Er, I didn't," Miram said. "My mum did, not long after I was born. Walburga shut her out though, and it wasn't until my mum died that I ever heard from my father's side of the family. I found all the old letters, and when they weren't accusing my mum of trying to get money, or else sullying the Black line with a 'muggle baby,' they threatened to go after her if she ever spoke up about my father. After mum died, Walburga wrote to me and gave me your address, explaining that you were my uncle and that I needed to come find you—"

"Why?"

It was a loaded question. "Because she thought you could help me find Regulus."

Black gave a cold, humorless chuckle. "That sounds like her," he said bitterly. "Forget the son that's still alive, send your disowned granddaughter on a fruitless chase for the only son you loved." He shook his head. "She was always selfish."

There was another awkward silence. The buzzing prevalent at Black's house wasn't quite as loud out here; more of a dulled, drowsy humming. The bayou was surprisingly active for a hot, sleepy morning. Bugs and birds Miram didn't recognize skirted the surface of the water, which occasionally yielded to the hungry mouths of fish and other unknown creatures.

"What else?" Miram asked, unable to keep the impatience from her voice. "What were his hobbies, his favorite places? Who did he hang out with?"

Black wiped his brow with the back of his hand hastily. Miram could feel the morning sun beginning to burn her fair skin.

"He played Quidditch," Black said after a moment's hesitation. "He was the team's Seeker. He was good, but it never seemed to fit him…"

"How so?"

Black shrugged. "I don't know…Quidditch players are loud, boisterous…Regulus was much more reserved and proper. His knack for decorum far surpassed my own skill."

Miram felt the corners of her mouth tug into a small smile at that.

Black swatted at a bee that had gotten too close to his head. "I guess I don't really know what he enjoyed—I know what he _did,_ but I suspect that was to please our family more than anything. Regulus was pretty private. The friends he made in school were all pureblooded, wealthy, or both—most of them grew up to become Death Eaters themselves, but I think our cousins had more to do with Regulus joining."

"The…Lestranges?" Miram asked, wracking her memory for the name.

"And Malfoy," Sirius added with distaste. He gave Miram a long look. "See what I mean about this family? You're better off without them."

Miram wasn't deterred. "Well, what else did he do?"

Black sighed, running a hand over his chin as he thought. He gave a non-committal half-shrug. "All the snobbish stuff—Slug Club, Chess Club, the Ministry Christmas parties, gossiping and match-making parties disguised as teenage socials…"

"Slug Club?"

"There was a potions master named Slughorn when we were at school," Black explained quickly. "He enjoyed cultivating students he thought held promise of fame or fortune. His little group was called the Slug Club."

Miram nodded her understanding, writing everything down.

"He was made a Prefect," he said, frowning in thought. "I have no idea if he ever made Head Boy. Maybe. He was all about appearances—well, I suppose he would have to be, since I single-handedly ruined our family's reputation."

Miram knew Black was being facetious, but she couldn't help the surge of sympathy she felt when he inadvertently described his outcast status within his own family.

"He read a lot," Black continued. "Mostly pureblood propaganda and highbrow literature—he didn't get grades quite as high as my own, so I think he tried to make up for it with a wider general knowledge base. He impressed a lot of old women at parties." Miram couldn't help but grin at that, and Black returned the smile fleetingly. His face seemed to falter, then harden. Finally, he continued, "Now it's my turn for a question."

Miram felt herself stiffen, as though preparing to answer a pop quiz in school.

"You indicated that you know Harry," Black said carefully, as though his words were made of brittle glass. "So how is he? Is he happy?"

It was not the question Miram had anticipated. The innocence and loneliness of it caught her off guard, and Miram wondered if perhaps she had gotten herself in over her head with her promise of a trade. Sitting in front of her was a hardened man, a stranger with the same face as hers, but full of carefully-constructed walls protected by a bayou halfway around the world. Miram felt the weight of the question press on her chest, and fought to say, "Er, yeah. He's a year behind me at school. Third year, now." She paused, hoping Black would interrupt her, but he waited patiently. "He seems really happy," she tried, shrugging. In truth she didn't know Potter well—her knowledge of him was the same as her general knowledge of any student in the school. "He's got these two friends—Weasley and… Granger, I think her name is—that he's always with. He's the Seeker for Gryffindor." She shrugged again. "I guess he's kind of popular, but like by accident—because of his name. He's kind of quiet, as far as popular students go…he doesn't let his fame get to his head."

Black was watching her with this odd look on his face—patience and attentiveness, but also a strange blend of emotions that didn't go together. Guilt and relief, joy and sadness…Miram couldn't make sense of the contradiction, and it unnerved her. She felt almost responsible for soothing Black's unspoken loneliness now.

"He's kind of a troublemaker," Miram continued, thinking back. Black grinned at that. "But it's obvious all the professors like him, especially Dumbledore. But definitely not Snape," Miram added as an afterthought.

"Snape? _Severus_ Snape?"

Miram raised an eyebrow at the question. "Er, yeah."

"He's _teaching_?"

"Potions," Miram replied, frowning at the look on Black's face. "You know him?"

Black shook his head, straightening up. "We went to school together," he said bitterly. "Evil git. I'm surprised Dumbledore's letting him teach there."

"Why?"

Black hesitated, then said dismissively, "If Snape's your professor, I'm sure you're familiar with his warm teaching methods."

Miram could sense there was something more to the explanation, but didn't push it. She hadn't travelled halfway across the world to learn about the taciturn potions master. "Is there anything else you want to know?"

Black thought about it for a long moment, as though battling with himself. Finally, after checking on the shrimp pots, he said, "Just one thing. Who does he live with?"

"Uh, I'm pretty sure with muggles," Miram said, frowning as she thought. "Like his aunt or something?"

"Do you know if anyone else checks in on him? Anyone from the wizarding world?"

Miram's frown deepened. "Er, no, I don't," she admitted. "I know Potter well enough, but we're not really friends or anything."

Black nodded. "It's okay," he said shortly. "The important thing is that he's happy."

They spent another few hours on the boat—when the sun had reached its zenith and the heat became unbearable, Black drew up the shrimp pots and headed back to the docks in Bayou La Batre. Miram was sure her exposed skin was sunburnt; she would have to see if Black had the ingredients for a basic healing salve when they got back to the house.

Miram was tasked with the job of putting the gear back into the truck while Black went inside the bait shop and exchanged the morning's catch for what Miram assumed was money. He returned a few minutes later, chugging some muggle drink in a plastic bottle while he handed a second one to Miram. It was tea, but ice cold and intensely sweet. Miram pondered over the first few sips, alarmed by the sweetness of a drink she knew to be hot and smooth, but something about it helped combat the oppressive heat.

Black turned over the engine to his rusted truck, letting it idle for a moment before peeling back onto the road and driving back through Mobile. The breeze was a welcome relief, and Miram felt oddly electrified by everything Black had told her. She held her notebook protectively in her lap, comforted by all the new information it contained. It was only midday, and Miram had through the remainder of tomorrow to fill the rest of the pages.

Black passed the busy downtown area, heading over endless bridges toward the far side of Mobile, toward the woods. He took the nameless roads by memory, cruising at a comfortable speed until they had reached the peeling, rusted mailbox that marked the driveway to his property.

"What the fuck…" Miram heard Black mutter under his breath as they pulled into the long gravel drive. He leaned forward in the driver's seat, peering across the overgrown lawn toward the veranda. Four men were sitting on his porch, dressed in an odd assortment of muggle clothes that were entirely too warm for the climate.

"Who is that?" Miram asked warily, already knowing the answer. She glanced at Black, who was frowning.

Black stopped the truck and opened his door cautiously. "Looking for someone?" he asked, annoyance evident in his voice. Miram opened her own door, hesitantly stepping in line behind Black.

"Sirius Black?" one of them said, getting to his feet. He was the tallest of the group, with reddish hair and a velour track jacket over brown slacks.

Black sighed, planting his hands on his hips near the foot of the steps. He looked up at the intruders on his veranda. "Have you come by to verify my address? Because I'm quite certain you did so three months ago." There was a hardness in his voice Miram hadn't heard before, and it unnerved her. She looked uncertainly between Black and the others. They were obviously Ministry employees, given their odd wardrobe and manner of speech. But why would they come all the way out here?

"Miram Fawcett?" the red-haired leader of the group asked, looking toward her now.

Miram lifted her chin defiantly. "Who's asking?"

"Robert Fenwick, Auror for the Ministry, working on behalf of the International Magical Cooperation," the man introduced himself. "I have with me a fellow Auror and two members of the Department of Child Services. We've been searching for you for the last several days."

Black turned to give Miram a wide-eyed, unreadable look. Miram felt her heart plummet into her stomach.

"Why don't we all step inside and get out of this heat," Fenwick suggested.

"I don't recall inviting you inside," Black said testily. Miram fidgeted where she stood, uncomfortable with the tension. "Why don't you tell me why you're here so I can get you off my porch?"

"Well, we're investigating the kidnapping of Miss Fawcett," Fenwick said, stepping down the porch casually as he spoke. Miram saw a set of handcuffs appear in his hands, and Black took an unconscious half-step back.

"I haven't been kidnapped!" Miram interrupted. "I came here on my own—"

"Your aunt reported you missing on Friday, and we tracked you down to a known convict's house," Fenwick replied, reaching the bottom of the steps. The other members of the group approached as well, flanking them.

Black was looking at Miram, his face full of exasperation.

"He's my uncle," Miram bit back. "And—"

"Miram, will you go inside and get your things?" Black asked tightly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Miram hesitated, looking between Black and the Ministry officials.

"Now?" Black continued pointedly.

Having no choice, Miram took a few tentative steps forward, walking up the porch steps slowly. The men around her all waited silently, heavy dislike palpable in the air. The screen door shut behind her, and Miram rushed to the laundry room to collect her belongings, shoving them roughly into her bag. She tore through the house and just as she reached the front room, the door had opened and the Ministry wizards were leading a handcuffed Black inside.

"What is going on?" Miram practically shouted, stopping dead in her tracks and letting her bag drop to the floor.

"Miss Fawcett, why don't you step outside and talk with me for a moment?" one of the other wizards suggested, nodding his head toward the veranda.

"This is all wrong!" Miram exclaimed. The head Auror shoved Black down into the nearest couch and stood protectively over him. Black shot him a hateful look but didn't turn to look at Miram. "You're blowing this way out of proportion—I came here on my own and practically forced him to let me stay—"

"Black has an Order of Protection against him—"

"For Potter, not me!"

"Harboring a runaway is still grounds for investigation," Fenwick replied sternly.

Miram ran her hands through her hair distractedly, in full panic mode. "Okay, look—I came here looking for information about my father. Black had no idea I was coming, and I pretty much forced myself here! He tried to take me to the airport but I refused to leave—"

"Miss Fawcett," Fenwick interrupted. "While commendable for you to accept responsibility for all of the blame, you are still a minor and Black here is an adult—"

"You wouldn't even be investigating this is Black was anyone else!" Miram exploded. She saw Black shake his head at her from behind Fenwick's back. "This is absurd! What on earth are you arresting him for?"

"I understand you're quite flustered," Fenwick said calmly. "If you would like to step outside with my colleagues and discuss this, I'm sure we can smooth everything over."

Miram quickly caught Black's eye. He tilted his head just ever so slightly toward the front door, mouthing the word _go._ Miram felt horrible leaving Black handcuffed in his own living room, but there seemed to be no arguing with the Ministry. She ran her hands through her hair again before making a beeline past everyone to the front porch. The two members from the Department of Child Services followed, leading Miram to the shady side of the wrap-around veranda.

"This is all my fault," Miram groaned, panic taking hold in the pit of her stomach. "Black had _nothing_ to do with any of this—I had no idea it would get so out-of-hand—"

"Miss Fawcett, do you feel unsafe here?"

"What?" Miram spluttered.

"Do you feel uns—"

"No!" she exclaimed. "I chose to come here!"

"You mentioned inside that you were seeking information regarding your father," the other one said gently. Miram could have screamed. They were treating her like a lost child in the clutches of the big bad wolf.

"Yes—that's why I came here—Black is my uncle. I've been trying to find out what happened to my father, and Black is my last direct relative," Miram rushed to say. "Look, don't punish him for this, it was all my fault. He didn't even know I existed until I showed up here yesterday. There's no sense in arresting him—"

"Black isn't being arrested," said the first official.

Miram felt like her brain had hit a brick wall. "Then why-?"

"For your protection, in case Black had decided to fight."

Nothing about that sentence made sense. " _What_?"

"It wouldn't be the first time Black acted out in anger," he informed her. "He has quite the record. Once we are assured your safety, we can relax our measures—"

"Okay, well, I'm safe," Miram insisted.

The two men exchanged a look.

"Are you certain there is nothing else you want to tell us before we go back inside?"

Miram pressed her palms to her temples. How had things gotten so out of control? "No—no, this all a _huge_ misunderstanding."

The official nearest sighed. "Right—well, if you're sure…"

"I am," Miram insisted.

The three of them headed back inside, where everyone was waiting silently. The two aurors stood guard protectively, one by the couch and the other by the door. Miram felt like an invisible fist had punched through her chest and was squeezing her heart. Black was sitting back on the couch, staring at the ceiling with a flat expression. The auror and Ministry official exchanged a look before Fenwick cleared his throat and said, "Well, after assessing the situation, Black, it appears you may not be a threat—"

Miram saw Black roll his eyes.

"So if you think you can cooperate, we'll take the cuffs off."

Black sat up straight, shooting Fenwick a withering look. Fenwick returned the look of contempt before withdrawing his wand and releasing Black.

"We have orders to escort you back to London immediately" the second auror, who had been notably silent so far, said. He was tall and dark-skinned, with a single gold earring. "Go collect the rest of your things."

Miram looked over at Black, who was rubbing his wrists where the cuffs had cut into them. "Can I say goodbye first?" she asked.

Miram could practically feel Fenwick rolling his eyes.

"If it's quick," the dark-skinned auror replied. "Five minutes." He gestured for the others to follow, and Miram waited until the front door had closed before turning to Black. "I'm so sorry," she rushed to say before Black could speak. "I had no idea—I swear I didn't know anyone would follow me all the way out here—"

"You ran away?" Black asked, his tone a mix of anger and disbelief.

"I didn't think my aunt would come looking for me," Miram said, faltering under Black's incredulous gaze.

"You didn't think she'd notice her fourteen-year-old niece went missing for a week?"

"She never notices anything I do—she can hardly stand me. I've been gone from home for way longer before, and she never cared—"

"You ran away from home, didn't tell anyone where you were going, and you're telling me you're surprised that the Ministry tracked you down?" Black said, his voice dangerously quiet and calm. "Do you have any idea how much trouble you've just gotten me in? I already have a record, and the Ministry has been waiting for an excuse to lock me back in Azkaban for years—"

"I'm sorry," Miram whispered, unable to fight the embarrassed tears welling in her eyes. "I'm so sorry."

Black sighed, running his hands over his face. "Go get your things."

Miram looked down at her bag. "My notebook is still in your truck."

"It's unlocked," Black replied shortly. "Is that all?"

"Yes," Miram replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Great," Black replied flatly, standing up.

Miram cleared her throat. "If I got permission next time—" she tried, already knowing the answer.

"I never want to see you here again!" Black snapped. "I'm sorry I can't help you, but this stops right now—go back to your aunt's house, and never contact me again. Is that clear?"

Miram stared at the floor, her resolve shattered. "Yes."

"Great. Now go find your protective escort," he said bitterly. He glanced toward the front door, but instead of heading to the veranda to see Miram off, he went into the kitchen. Miram pulled her bag over her shoulder, wiping at her eyes roughly. She didn't dare steal a glance over her shoulder, instead making a direct line for the door and stepping outside. The Ministry officials were waiting near Black's old truck, and gestured over to Miram as the screen door shut. Miram descended the stairs stiffly, wiping her eyes one last time before allowing herself to be led away by the Ministry. Overhead thick, black clouds were rolling in like clockwork, and a few scattered raindrops fell to the earth.

Her search was over before it had quite begun.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter three:

Miram wrote and re-wrote her notes on Regulus Black several times that summer in different notebooks to the point where she had memorized most of them. She had her secret shoebox full of the Black family letters written to her mother, and now her extensive notes that Black had given her.

But it wasn't enough.

Miram often took the train to London while her aunt and uncle were at work, perusing the extensive wizarding library for eight, nine, sometimes ten hours a day—more if her aunt was working a double shift. She found old newspaper articles and court transcripts of nearly every name on her list—all accused of being Death Eaters. Some were dead, some imprisoned, and the rest acquitted. Most of Miram's information was about Regulus's childhood, and so she searched extensively for Horace Slughorn, the retired Potions Master. She wrote a carefully-constructed letter asking for information, and less than a week later, received the following in reply:

 _Miss Fawcett,_

 _What a delightful surprise to have received your letter! Needless to say it was entirely unknown to me that Regulus Black fathered any children! I of course understand your desire to learn more about him, but I am afraid that I pose little more than a dead end. I knew Regulus well in school, having been both his teacher and Head of House, but our correspondence came to a halt after he left school. It was a year later that I heard anything about him, and I was greatly saddened to hear that it was only of his passing._

 _I do wish you the best in your journey for information!_

 _Best Regards,_

 _Horace E. F. Slughorn_

After several weeks of this, it became clear that Miram had gathered far more information on her father's friends and acquaintances than on himself. She needed more to work with, but Black was the only person who could help her.

Miram beat the palm of her hand against her forehead, feeling stupid and embarrassed every time her thoughts drifted to Black. She figured her aunt would come looking for her eventually, but never suspected she would be tracked down so soon, or that the Ministry would go overboard. Miram couldn't have possibly screwed up her encounter with Black any more than she had, and now she couldn't return.

The train rides to and from her aunt's house in Wembley were long and lonely, giving Miram plenty of time to think about what angle to try next. Miram returned home each night, stuffing the contents of her bag carefully into a shoebox she kept hidden from her aunt and uncle in an old laundry chute. Her aunt Lailah was a Healer and often worked double shifts; Uncle Robert was a politician frequently out of the country. This left Miram to wander their huge house alone most days ever since her mother passed away.

Miram's relationship with her aunt and uncle was strained before it began; Miram's mother, Judat, had been born a Squib to a wealthy and politically-influential wizarding family. From the beginning Judat was an outcast in her family, an embarrassment that ran so deeply that Aunt Lailah pretended she had no sister when she let for Hogwarts. Judat attended a private muggle school in Switzerland, mostly to get her away from the rest of the family most of the year. When Judat turned seventeen, she returned to England to work as a waitress in Hogsmede—her resemblance to her older sister Lailah was undeniable, and soon the rumors began that Judat the Squib was the youngest child to the Fawcett family.

Judat said it was around this time that she met Regulus Black, the darkly handsome boy from Hogwarts who was always so polite. Their relationship was swift and dizzying, an electrifying secret that they both kept from everyone. When Judat became pregnant near the end of Regulus Black's seventh year, she was swiftly disowned by her family and promised financial protection by her lover. That protection, of course, never came again after the first bag of gold. Regulus had all but disappeared from the world, leaving Judat to raise an infant with no support from either side. Judat quit her job in the Three Broomsticks and moved to the muggle world, where she supported herself and Miram by working several odd jobs until the day she died. At eight years old, Miram was shuffled through a foster system before being picked up by the Committee for Magical Child Welfare through the Ministry of Magic and eventually handed over to a reluctant Aunt Lailah and her respectable husband, Robert. Just when Lailah thought she was rid of her connection to a Squib sister forever, her bastard child became her responsibility. As for Uncle Robert, he had never wanted children, insisting they got in the way of his political aspirations. He regarded Miram as a sort of permanent guest of Lailah's, hardly acknowledging her relationship to the family.

Miram attended a private girl's school from eight to eleven years old, when she unexpectedly received her Hogwarts letter. If discovering her niece was in fact magical didn't repair the feelings Aunt Laila held, then nothing could. Miram was sent to Hogwarts with no expectation of magical prowess, and her Sorting into Ravenclaw only further reaffirmed Aunt Lailah's belief that Miram was a crafty, meddlesome child. Miram grew up from a quiet kid into a rebellious teenager, frequently sneaking out and socializing with teens much older than herself. With her aunt and uncle gone more often than they were home, Miram had grown accustomed to doing anything she wanted.

So when she had received Walburga's letter detailing her relationship to the Black family and insisting Miram find the disowned heir, Miram plotted a trip to Mobile Alabama over a careful year and a half, saving up money along the way by selling her notes and homework to her classmates.

Upon returning to Wembley, Aunt Lailah had attempted to ground Miram for the remainder of the summer, even going so far as to enchant the perimeter of her house from allowing Miram through. Miram, of course, figured out the counter-charm in less than two days, and continued her routine of riding trains into London almost daily. As long as she returned home before Aunt Lailah's twelve-hour shifts ended, then no one would be any the wiser. There were no other relatives, no House Elf, not even a single pet to notice Miram's absence in the huge, empty house at the end of Hampton Drive.

It was on one of Miram's countless train rides into London that she began to brainstorm ways to meet with Black again. She could find an excuse to be gone from her house for a week again—it was getting Black to open up that was the tricky part. He would undoubtedly be furious, but if Miram could offer up something as a trade… but the only thing he seemed to be interested in was Harry Potter. And she couldn't exactly drag the Boy Who Lived halfway across the world with her…

The train weaved intricately through the business district, winding past other trains on a web of tracks toward King's Cross. Miram hoisted her bag onto her shoulder, trying to think of any other way to get Black to talk to her. There was Veritaserum, but she didn't know how she would get Black to drink it. She could try blackmailing him, but there was nothing she held over him other than empty threats he would doubtlessly see right through. Besides, she wasn't trying to make her relationship with Black worse than it already was.

Miram walked the few blocks toward the wizarding library, a cavernous facility built directly underneath the British Library. She descended the stairs to the hidden entrance quickly, slipping inside unnoticed.

Like the British Library above it, the Great Wizarding Library was expansive and even offered a small trolley service to get from one end to the other. Entire wings were dedicated to journalism, historical documents, various subjects in reference, literature, and genealogy. Wax dripping from candles would ruin the priceless documents, and so the library was lit with thousands of fairy lights enclosed in little baubles, floating around the high ceilings and following the patrons around, lighting the way. Despite seeking out the library on an almost daily basis for two years, Miram had only managed to cover perhaps twenty percent of its reference section, and less still in journalism.

With nothing to go on, Miram returned to the familiar section in journalism, pulling out carefully-laminated newspapers from November and December of 1981. Between articles detailing Voldemort's demise were stories surrounding the final round-up of Death Eaters still at large, the ascension of the new Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, and of course the subject of the day: Sirius Black's sensational arrest.

Miram knew the story well at this point; driven mad with grief, Peter Pettigrew tracked down Black and cornered the man on a busy muggle street only to be blown apart moments later. Miram combed through the articles carefully, writing down names and quotes relating to Black. She searched through the entire calendar year of 1984, the year Black was finally released from Azkaban with nothing more than an Order of Protection and a world of suspicion. Articles quoted the Black patriarch, Arcturus, insisting upon his grandson's innocence and demanding the Ministry release him at once. The opinion pieces were less forgiving, going into great detail about how it was only the Black family's strong political connections and sheer wealth that bought Sirius Black's freedom. Once in a while were articles detailing Peter Pettigrew's death, wavering between suspicions and outright hero-worship. Pettigrew's death had been ruled an accident, but Miram was sure this was simply the Ministry's way of saying they didn't know what had happened.

Nearly a year after Black's release from Azkaban, the papers turned to inquiries on the man's location, all detailing his mysterious absence from the wizarding world. Arcturus Black had died at this point, leaving Sirius as the only male heir to the name, and no one knew where he was. Some speculative opinion pieces detailed elaborate plans for Black to reinstate Voldemort or become a Dark Lord himself, while others reflected on the clear fact that Black was never a real person, and was instead a ruse invented by the Ministry to explain a secret form of government magic gone awry.

After having met Black, Miram realized how outrageous most of the articles were in their portrayal of him. Black was quiet and insisted upon his solitude—very unlike the maniacal monster in the newspaper. Miram sighed, shoving all the papers back into their rightful place on the shelves.

This left her only the original articles from 1981, thick volumes filled with stories about Voldemort, Harry Potter, the Ministry of Magic, and final assaults by Death Eaters. Miram picked one up and skimmed through some of the periphery articles—stories she had ignored in her initial research of Black.

 **THE BOY WHO LIVED WITH MUGGLES**

It was a bizarre albeit catchy title, and Miram read on—

 _Harry Potter,1, the Boy Who Lived, is reportedly staying with muggles, according to an anonymous source._

 _For weeks the public has wondered what has become of the baby wizarding hero, and a recent report from within the Ministry of Magic itself indicates that Potter is currently under the care of family. Being as Potter has no surviving relatives on his father's side, this report suggests that Potter is staying with his mother's family—muggles just south of Surrey!_

Miram set the paper back down on the table, rubbing her eyes tiredly. It was a quarter to four, and Aunt Lailah would be off by seven. Her day of research had yielded very little, and Miram felt it almost wasteful to head home now. It was halfway through July, and Miram was running out of time if she was going to track down her father before the school year started.

Miram turned back to the gossip article.

 _Lily Potter's elder sister, Petunia Dursley, refused to comment, demanding this reporter leave at once. It is unclear if the Boy Who Lived is in fact living with muggles, but—_

Miram was struck with a sudden, wild idea. She scribbled the aunt's name down in her notebook before shoving the papers back onto the shelf, entirely out of order. She hurried through the library, taking the steps two at a time until she reached the narrow alleyway outside. Miram all but ran to the muggle British Library, bypassing all the receptionists for the general reference section. The computer was ancient and took forever to boot up, and opening Netscape Navigator took even longer. Once Miram was finally logged into the library's search database, she typed in Potter's aunt's name.

A few news articles showed up detailing some fancy lawn club, but the one that caught Miram's eye was fourth on the list.

 _Petunia and Vernon Dursley of Number 4, Privet Drive, Surrey, are proud to announce the birth of their first child, Dudley Martin Dursley. Dudley was born June 30_ _th_ _at the Royal Surrey County Hospital._

Miram hastily scribbled this information into her notebook. It was a long shot to think the Dursleys still lived in Little Whinging, but it was worth a shot.

* * *

Miram walked hesitantly down the narrow, suburban streets of Little Whinging. All the houses appeared exactly the same, and even the cars and garden maintenance all seemed to match. It was dizzying keeping herself oriented, and Miram kept referring to the map she had brought. She passed a busy playground, which seemed right…here was Magnolia Crescent…and Privet Drive.

Miram felt strangely nervous knocking on Harry Potter's door, but after she had been brave enough to meet Black, she knew it ought to be no problem. Miram counted the house numbers as she walked by, finally stopping just outside of number four. The garden was perhaps the most green, and certainly the most immaculate. Miram was sure the muggles who lived here were the sort to trim their lawn with a ruler and a pair of scissors. Miram's eyes looked over the perfectly-shaped rosebushes that lined the house before taking a few hesitant steps and knocking firmly on the door.

She heard footsteps inside, and a moment later, the door swung open to reveal a rather thin, horse-faced woman. For a split second Miram was sure she had knocked on the wrong door; this woman looked nothing like the red-haired Lily Potter. Perhaps the Dursleys had moved on?

"Er, Mrs. Dursley?" Miram tried awkwardly.

"Yes," the woman replied slowly, looking Miram up and down, no doubt disapproving of her multiple piercings and unconventional manner of dress.

Relief and excitement flooded Miram's veins. "Er, my name's Miram Fawcett. I'm looking for your nephew, Harry Potter?"

Mrs. Dursley looked as though Miram had just informed her that she had most unfortunately ingested radioactive water and had less than twelve hours until she sprouted an extra head. The woman quickly scanned the street behind Miram, as though neighbors were pulling over their vehicles to eavesdrop on the conversation.

"I'm a friend of his from school," Miram tried. She hoped that it would calm the woman down, but it seemed to do just the opposite. Mrs. Dursley looked scandalized, as though Miram had just uttered a string of the foulest curse words, and hissed a quick, "There is no Harry here!" before slamming the door shut.

It took Miram a moment to realize what had just happened. She blinked a few times, taking a few hesitant steps back before turning toward the driveway. She supposed she could always try writing Potter…it would waste a lot of time with back and forth correspondence, but it was better than nothing…

"You'd have better luck chucking a stone at my window," came a disembodied voice.

Miram jumped, looking around, but no one was there. Then, just before she could have a heart attack, a scrawny teenaged boy crawled out from under a hydrangea bush, straightening his glasses and brushing dirt off his oversized clothes.

"Potter," Miram said aloud, almost in confirmation.

"Er, do I know you?" Harry asked, frowning at her.

"We go to school together," Miram replied, realizing how crazy she must look. "Ravenclaw, a year ahead of you, I think. Look, er, this is kind of weird, but do you have time to talk?"

Harry hesitated, looking over his shoulder at his aunt's house. "I'm not really supposed to leave the house without permission…"

Miram shrugged, giving the cookie-cutter house a dark look. "I snuck out, too, and all the way from Wembley."

Harry gave a sort of nervous half-grin at that.

"Come on," Miram added, gesturing with her head in the direction of the park. She had the same look on her face older kids used to give her when encouraging her to sneak out of her private girls' school to share a cigarette. "Just for a bit."

"Er, all right," Harry agreed after a moment's hesitation.

They walked in silence toward the park, which was empty now. Miram chose a seat on the rusty swing set, absently pushing off with her heels, and Harry followed suit.

"So, er, your aunt was a bit strange," Miram said, unsure of how to get the conversation flowing with a boy she had hardly knew.

"She doesn't like magic," Harry replied, shrugging. "None of them do. Usually they pretend I'm not there, so when someone from our world comes knocking, she sort of freaks out."

"Huh," said Miram thoughtfully.

"How d'you know where I live?" Harry asked. "I mean, you mentioned Wembley, so you must not live around here."

"Well, I needed to find you before school started, so I looked up your aunt and uncle's address—as soon as I read in some old muggle papers that Petunia Evans married Vernon Dursley, it wasn't too hard to find. Kind of scary, isn't it? How much information is just sitting out there about you?"

Harry shrugged, but he had a pensive look on his face, as though the thought had never before occurred to him.

"Have you ever thought to look yourself up?" Miram asked. "There's loads about you in the library in London—"

Harry groaned softly at that. "Uh…no, not really. I mean, the whole being famous bit…it's not for me. I'm really not all that special, it's just people think I am because of the whole Voldemort thing when I was a baby."

"What about your parents?" Miram tried carefully.

Harry looked over at her, squinting in the afternoon sun. "Is there stuff about them? In the library?"

"A bit," Miram allowed. "Mostly articles about their deaths, at least from what I saw."

Harry nodded, turning back to look over the empty sports field across from them. He was silent for a long moment, but Miram knew she couldn't fill the silence too soon—Harry needed time to mull over the idea first.

"You said there's some library in London?" he finally said.

"The Great Wizarding Library, just below the British Library near King's Cross," Miram replied. "I go there almost daily."

"Why?"

Miram shrugged, surprised by the question. "Er, research, I guess. I've been trying to find out what happened to my dad."

Harry looked around at her questioningly.

"He disappeared during the war," Miram replied hastily. "And after my mum died, I went to live with my aunt and uncle. My mum wasn't married when she got pregnant, so the whole thing was very hush-hush—I hardly know a thing about my dad."

"I don't know much about my parents, either," Harry replied sympathetically. "Just mostly stuff Hagrid's told me."

"Er, look—" Miram said, unable to keep beating around the bush. "The reason I came here—I went to the States a bit ago—"

Harry looked impressed by that. "Alone?" he guessed.

Miram grinned in spite of herself. "Er, yeah—anyway, I met with someone I think is my uncle. After my mum died, I got a box of all her letters and stuff, letters that were about me. She had been writing my dad's family—most of them have died off, but my grandmother gave me my uncle's name and address out in America so I went to go see him."

"You just up and left? Did you tell him you were coming?" Harry asked, turning in his swing to face Miram directly.

"Not my smartest moment," Miram admitted, feeling sheepish as the memories of her disastrous trip to Alabama crept back into her mind's eye. "But I did do a load of research on him before I went…and I'm pretty sure he knew your parents." The last part was a huge understatement, but Miram needed to gauge Harry's interest before she went further.

"Really?" Harry asked earnestly. "Like they went to school together?"

"Er, more like my uncle said they were all best friends," Miram said carefully. "He said he knew your dad really well."

Harry just about shot up out of his swing. "Really?" he said again, his excitement obvious. "D'you think—oh…" Harry stopped mid-sentence, visibly deflating. "…you said he lives in America…"

"I'm going to try to go back," Miram said. "I'm sure he'd be willing to tell you about your parents—I can give him your address if you like—"

Harry thought about it a moment. "That wouldn't be too weird?"

Miram shrugged. "He didn't know he had a niece until I showed up."

"Er, yeah," Harry replied, relief crossing his face. "Yeah. That'd be great."

Miram should have been elated, but something ugly kept nagging her in the back of her mind. "I should tell you a bit about him first," she said carefully. "So you're not shocked or anything."

"Uh, all right," said Harry, his smile faltering just a bit. "Yeah."

"Well, he was accused of being a Death Eater, you see," Miram began, trying to paraphrase Black's dark past. "So he was in Azkaban for three years—he was innocent, though, so eventually his family was able to get him out. Only the problem is, I guess, once you've been branded a Death Eater it's really hard to look past it."

Harry was watching her with a blank face. "What's a Death Eater?"

Miram was surprised for a moment, but then remembered Harry's only contact with the wizarding world was at school. "You-Know-W-Voldemort's closest followers during the war," she explained, switching mid-sentence to Voldemort's real name. She felt her heart skip a beat when she said it. "Top witches and wizards who would do most of the dirty work."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "So how did he get accused of being one?"

"Remember that he's innocent," Miram rushed to say, feeling like she had to defend Black to Harry. Maybe she did; maybe Harry would want nothing to do with Black if he knew what the man was. "So everything I know was in the papers, and it wasn't really clear—but it sounds like Black—my uncle—was accused of handing over his friends to Voldemort when it was actually someone else, someone who had framed him. Well, before the Ministry figured that one out, he was carted off to Azkaban for a few years."

Harry's brows were knit together in thought. "And Azkaban is…?"

"The wizarding prison," Miram replied.

"But he's innocent," Harry clarified.

"Definitely."

"Well, that's all fine," Harry decided. "That's nothing he could have helped." Miram hesitated, and Harry frowned at her. "What?" he asked slowly.

"The last part you should know," Miram said slowly, as though speaking gently would soften the blow she was about to lay down. "The friends he was accused of betraying…they were your parents."

She wasn't sure how she had been expecting Harry to react, but Miram imagined it would at least be some form of shock or even horror. Instead Harry just stared at her, a funny look on his face as the words sunk in. "How do you know?" he finally asked.

"It was in the papers," Miram replied.

There was screaming in the distance, and Miram and Harry both looked up to see two young children, not much older than five or six, come tearing into the opposite side of the playground. They were racing each other to the merry-go-round, thumping around on its hot metal surface. Straggling behind was their mother, shielding her eyes from the sun and calling out for the kids to be careful.

"So what happened to the person who really did it?" Harry asked.

"He's dead, too," Miram said quietly, pulling a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I guess Black had tried to track him down, and the wizard—Pettigrew—tried to escape by causing a diversion. An explosion or something? Anyway, he died and the Ministry ruled it an accident."

"So does the Ministry know he's the one responsible for my parents dying?" Harry asked, a sort of forcefulness in his voice that Miram associated with people much older.

"Yes," she said slowly.

"You don't sound sure," Harry observed.

"It's all very messy, and like I said, this is all stuff I found in the papers," Miram replied. "I'm sure Black could explain it better than me."

Harry stared at the ground, absently pushing his swing a few inches with the balls of his feet. He was deep in thought, and Miram watched him earnestly, waiting for a reaction. In the distance, the two children were running around, letting out screams of glee while their mother relaxed on a nearby bench, all but ignoring them.

"So what's his name? Your uncle?"

"Sirius Black."

Harry shrugged. "Never heard of him."

"Really?" Miram asked, a little surprised. "I mean—didn't anyone mention him when they told you about your parents?"

Harry shook his head. "No," he said dully. "No, just that Voldemort murdered them and then tried to kill me."

"Oh," said Miram softly. "Er, sorry."

"For what?"

Miram shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. "I thought you knew—well, a bit more about what actually happened."

"No, no one told me."

There was another long silence.

"So…d'you think this Sirius Black would care if I wrote him, asking about my parents?" Harry asked.

Miram shook her head. "No, definitely not," she said assuredly. She briefly entertained the idea of informing Harry that Black was his godfather, but swiftly decided against it. She would leave that detail to Black to divulge—if he ever chose to tell Harry. "Er, I'm planning on going back real soon—I can give him your address and have him write first, if it's less weird that way."

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "That would be better."

Miram checked her watch; it was half past four. She would have to get back to the train station if she was going to make it home before Aunt Lailah returned. She stood up, absently brushing her hair out of her face. "Er, well, I should probably get going. I know it was really weird to just drop by with all that."

"No, it was…" Harry thought, mulling over the right word. "Informative."

Miram smiled at that. "Right. Okay, well, er, I guess I'll be in touch? If you're sure?"

It was a harmless enough question, but Miram knew how many rules she was breaking by this single meeting with Harry Potter, how many lives she was disrupting. But she could justify the meddling—that was important. Harry Potter would learn about his parents, Black would finally get contact with his godson, and Miram would have the information she needed to track down her father. It wasn't the best or neatest way to go about things, but it would work. Everyone would get a little piece of what they had been missing.

Harry nodded, getting to his feet. "Yeah."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter four:

Everything was carefully planned this time, but as all things go, it never quite unraveled the way Miram had expected.

Miram had wasted weeks begging permission from Aunt Lailah to go back to America—she had just enough gold leftover for the ticket—but Aunt Lailah refused, insisting that Miram was still grounded. Miram tried appeasing her aunt with a spotless house and her best behavior, and when this failed, the plan devolved into a screaming match and Miram obviously sneaking out each night. Miram figured if she annoyed her enough, then Aunt Lailah would all but kick her out of the house for a bit.

What she didn't quite anticipate, however, was Aunt Lailah packing up Miram's trunk and tossing everything onto the front lawn at ten at night.

"Where am I supposed to go this late at night?" Miram roared to the silent house, picking up stray belongings off the grass. It appeared that in Aunt Lailah's rage, she had begun chucking Miram's belongings haphazardly through the window.

Aunt Lailah often banished Miram from the house, but never more than a day or two. And she certainly never charmed the house locks to keep Miram out, or threw Miram's belongings all over the front of the house.

"Real good parenting, Aunt Lailah!" Miram roared, hoping the neighbors would hear and silently judge from their windows. Maybe turn on a few living room lights to signal to the others that there was a spectacle going on outside. "I'm fourteen, so I guess that's old enough to be self-sufficient! I'll just get a job between Hogwarts classes! Ride my fucking broomstick to Diagon Alley and back!" Leave it to Aunt Lailah to have to embarrassingly explain to the muggle neighbors what her troubled niece was screaming about. Miram didn't care. "I'm sure the Ministry will love hearing about this! Just _think_ about Robert's fucking reputation at the Ministry! Think he'll still make Warlock of the Year?"

There was no response from her aunt's house.

Miram flipped a double bird in the direction of the front door. "Fuck you!" she shouted one last time, throwing her head back to maximize the power in her voice. Miram felt unsteady on her feet, her body flooded with adrenaline. Anger and fear were churning inside of her, making Miram dizzy. She tossed the last of her belongings in her trunk, pulling out her wand and casting a Featherlight Charm. She had just been kicked out of her house; who cared if she used magic now. If the Ministry showed up to expel her, she could just explain that it was all Aunt Lailah's fault.

Miram grabbed one end of her trunk and dragged it loudly down the sidewalk. She could just levitate it, but she wanted to make a scene.

The trains weren't running to London this late at night, so Miram huddled against the closed gate, sitting over her trunk and wrapping her jacket protectively around herself. It would be another six hours until the station opened, and at least several more until Miram could get a flight out of England. She briefly considered tying her trunk to the end of her broomstick, but knew she would never make it all the way across the Atlantic. She had never tried Apparition before, but knew now was not the time to practice. She would just have to deal with the wait and travel the muggle way.

She didn't have to wait as long as she had expected for a flight into Washington DC, and from there Miram decided to throw caution to the wind and fly the rest of the way to Alabama, careful to keep the major highways in her line of sight as she flew south. Under cover of darkness, Miram was able to fly the entire fifteen-hundred kilometers to Mobile, arriving just as the sun was rising on her third day of travel.

Miram was exhausted at this point. The Featherlight Charm was wearing off her trunk, and the intense southern heat zapped what little sense Miram had left. She rented a room at the nearest motel she could find, dragging her trunk behind her. Miram shut all the blinds, pointed her wand at the rickety AC in the window, and collapsed on the bed, still fully dressed. She slept for hours, her exhaustion catching up with her. It wasn't until well past the late afternoon that Miram woke up again, her stomach twisting in hunger. She hadn't eaten since arriving at the airport in Washington DC.

Miram took a quick shower, changed into fresh clothes, and debated if she should try flying to Black's house or take a cab. Miram dumped her purse on her bed and counted out the remainder of her American muggle money—flying it was, then.

Miram stuffed her broom awkwardly in her enchanted Bottomless Bag, the only way she could think to carry it without attracting attention. She checked her pockets for keys and wand before stepping out into the dry parking lot, the humidity practically punching her in the face. Miram was already sweating when she had reached an enclosure of trees down the road, making sure she was well-hidden before pulling her broom out of her bag. The sky was a vibrant rainbow of red, orange, and magenta, traces of deep plum encroaching from the east. The brightest stars were already beginning to shine in the sky.

Checking that the compass on her broom was still calibrated correctly, Miram took off into the evening sky, flying over forest as much as possible. She crossed the Bay, trying to do it as quickly as possible, then disappeared into the protection of forest again. Miram slowed down, lowering herself to just below canopy level, following the long, narrow road that led to Black's house. It was twilight now, and almost impossible to see without a light source. Finally, just before the last light faded, Miram saw the familiar rusted mailbox on the side of the road, crookedly sticking out of the earth.

The house hadn't changed, except that it appeared Black finally mowed the overgrown lawn. The familiar buzzing wasn't as loud, but she could feel mosquitos following her around, hidden in the darkness. A few lights were on inside the house, inviting Miram in. She stuffed the broom back into her bag, finger-combing her wild hair before heading up the long gravel drive. Miram took a deep breath, and reached out to ring the doorbell a few times. She could hear footsteps inside the house, and a moment later, Black's stunned face appeared in the doorway.

"Listen," Miram began quickly, blocking the door from shutting all the way with her foot. "I know you said not to come back—"

"Obviously I wasn't clear last time," Black said, glaring at her through the screen door. "So I'll put it simply: when I said not to come back, I meant it—"

"Neither of us will get in trouble for this!" Miram rushed to say. "I took care of everything this time! I researched the protection order—it doesn't apply to me, and it doesn't apply to anyone visiting your house—there is absolutely no way you can get into trouble by my being here—"

"Why don't you get it?" Black snapped. "I—don't—want—you—here."

Miram felt herself falter at the harshness of Black's voice, of the obvious discomfort in his face. She hesitated for a split second, then continued on, "I told Harry about you—"

The anger on Black's face was wiped clean, leaving a stunned expression in its place. "You—what?"

"Harry, I tracked him down and I told him about you—I have his address in case you want to write to him, look—" Miram said breathlessly, rushing to get all the words out before Black interrupted. She withdrew an envelope from her bag and handed it over to Black, who took it with shaking hands. He opened it and stared at the scrap parchment inside, an unreadable look on his face. "He said it'd be weird to write first," Miram continued. "But he said he'd like to hear from you."

Black ran a thumb over the parchment delicately, as though it was at risk of crumbling into dust in his hands. There was a long silence, then Miram finally saw the wall come down in Black's face. "Come in," he said quietly, holding the door open for Miram, who rushed inside.

The house looked exactly the same as it had when Miram had last been here. The living room was pleasantly cool, and Miram wondered if perhaps Black had charmed it against the oppressive humidity outside. Black sat down on one of the sofas, and Miram carefully selected a seat on the opposite side, pressing her palms tightly between her bare knees.

Black tucked the parchment back into the envelope and set it delicately on top of his coffee table, next to an elegant-looking letter. At the bottom, Miram recognized Dumbledore's signature immediately. Black seemed to notice her gaze, and said flatly, "Dumbledore's asked me to come back to England."

"Why?" Miram asked before she could stop herself.

Black gave the letter a long, unreadable look. He was still staring at it when he replied, "Because he wants my help." Black gave a humorless chuckle. "That's Dumbledore for you—he has the audacity to guilt me in an attempt to convince me to return to England, and yet he let me rot in Azkaban for three years—even gave evidence against me."

"What does he want your help with?" Miram asked bravely, not believing for a second that Black would actually tell her. For the briefest of moments she had nearly forgotten why she was in Black's living room at all.

Black shrugged. "He knew better than to say in a letter, but I have my suspicions."

"Death Eaters? Voldemort?"

Black gave Miram a long look, like he was examining a particularly complicated map. He was absently playing with a few loose strands on the woven blanket next to him. "You don't sound fourteen to me," he finally said observationally.

Miram straightened up in her seat. "So?"

"You mentioned last time that you live with your aunt—does she talk to you like that? Like you're an adult?"

Miram felt her shoulders tense up under Black's impenetrable gaze. "Does it matter if she does?"

Black shrugged. "I'm just trying to get a better idea of you."

"Well, don't bother," said Miram, inwardly flinching at how rough her voice sounded. "We made a deal, and I'm keeping to it. In fact, I went so far as to contact Harry for you—"

"I can't write him."

Black's voice was so soft that for a moment Miram wasn't sure if she had imagined it. "What?"

"I appreciate your tenacity," Black continued, getting to his feet. "But I won't be writing Harry."

"Why not?" Miram demanded, stunned. She turned from her spot on the couch to face Black. "He wants to hear from you! He said so himself!"

"And then what?" Black snapped. "I can never meet him! Anything I send to him has to be done secretly—I'm not going to be on the periphery of his life like that. I won't be able to give him anything he's bound to expect—"

"He just wants to _talk_ ," Miram interrupted. "I know Potter better than you do—he just wants to hear about his parents. He says his aunt and uncle never tell him anything about them. Look, I know what it's like to wonder what your parents were like—that's all it is—"

"How do you know?" Black snapped, an uneasy wavering in his normally collected voice. "You're just a child—you can't meddle in other peoples' lives like this—"

"We made a deal!" Miram almost shouted, getting to her feet. Her anger, once shoved to the periphery, was slipping front and center of her mind. She had worked hard to come back, even got kicked out of her house—she wasn't about to have Black turn her down. "Harry Potter for my father! So don't lecture me about what's right and wrong when you agreed to it rather quickly last time!"

"Contacting Harry was never part of the deal!" Black shouted. "All I ever wanted to know was whether or not he was happy—I never asked you to bring him into this, and now that you have—"

"Now _what_?" Miram snapped. "Now you might have to come out of your hidey-hole and face the real world?"

Black looked like Miram had just slapped him. "Get out," he whispered.

"No," Miram replied before she could stop herself. "I gave you something—I want my share now."

"You want to know what kind of person Regulus was?" Black hissed, his voice dangerously angry. "He was a coward—he was jealous of me when we were growing up, so when the opportunity presented itself to be better than me, he took it blindly. He pledged his allegiance to Voldemort and joined the Death Eaters to spite me and impress our idiot parents—the fact that he had a secret child doesn't surprise me at all. Didn't you ever wonder why none of us knew about you? Because anything that didn't align with our parents' stupid ideals had to go—and that included you—"

"Shut up," Miram whispered, angry tears welling in her eyes.

"My brother couldn't even care for his own child out of fear of what our family would say! He joined the Death Eaters because he was too cowardly to say no! That's the kind of man my brother was—you chase after his ghost, you'll only find disappointment—"

"It really was a mistake coming out here," Miram said, furiously wiping at the tears coming down. "You're a real knobhead, no wonder no one wanted to bail you out of Azkaban." She hitched her bag onto her shoulder, and ignoring the look on Black's face, she marched across his living room and slammed the front door shut behind her. Miram yanked her broom out of her bag as she stormed down the steps, taking off into the sky before she had quite reached the bottom.

* * *

Miram flew mindlessly for a while, taking her broom out over the bay with half a mind to just keep going. It was only her fear of open water and inability to swim that stopped her from heading into the Gulf of Mexico. When her body began to protest being on a broom for an extended time so soon, Miram turned around and headed back to Mobile. She walked the lonely roads for a while, furiously replaying her argument with Black in her head over and over, thinking of all the things she'd have liked to say—after the fact, of course.

Miram stopped at one of the few muggle restaurants that was still open this late at night, ordering a sad-looking cheeseburger and tea before heading back to her motel. Miram poked at her food mindlessly, too agitated to eat. She tried watching the television for a bit, but it was all just background noise. Miram couldn't keep up with the story line in any of the programs.

Finally Miram fell into an uneasy sleep, often waking up on the hour for a few minutes here, twenty minutes there. The television was still on, playing an endless stream of commercials.

At dawn there was a sharp rapping on the window, and Miram jumped, still half-asleep. She got to her feet hesitantly, drawing back the curtain. No one was there. She debated going back to sleep, writing it off as a dream, when the rapping continued, at the bottom of the door this time. Miram peered out the peep-hole before carefully opening the door, her eyes dropping to the threshold.

Just outside was a huge barn owl, an oversized letter clutched protectively in its beak. Miram opened up the door more and the owl hopped in, dropping the letter immediately and fluttering over to Miram's leftover dinner. The owl took a few bites of her sandwich before snatching up the rest and flying off. Miram picked up the letter, turning it over in her hands. Frowning, she tore open the letter and in unfamiliar, elegant writing, read,

 _Miram,_

 _I want to apologize for last night. You arrived at a bad time, and I took my frustrations out on you, which you didn't deserve. I'll understand if you want nothing more to do with me, so I have included anything that may prove useful in your search—_

Miram checked the heavy envelope, and sure enough there were copies of newspaper clippings, magazine articles, and a list of names and addresses. Enclosed was a single photograph of a man who looked remarkably like Black, yet was clearly not Black as his features were softer, and his nose longer.

 _Regulus had everything our parents wanted in a son, but he also had the misfortune of being born second. I think now I took my firstborn status for granted, and my callousness of our family's expectations implanted a seed of jealousy in Regulus. I flaunted my inheritance and yet openly disdained it—it was only a matter of time before Regulus began to look for a way to surpass me. I ran away from home at sixteen, and Regulus succeeded me as the heir to the Black family. I saw Regulus from time to time in school, but we never spoke. At the time I hated our family for aligning themselves with Voldemort, and this included Regulus—only now do I realize how stupid I was for thinking Regulus joined the Death Eaters of his own will, and at sixteen, no less. I was the elder brother—I should have protected him._

 _When I left school, I only saw Regulus once, in passing. I was actively working against Voldemort and had all but forgotten my family. He was in an alleyway outside of Gringott's, just off the main road. I should have stopped him then, offered my help to get out of the Death Eaters, but I just kept walking. I never did see him again. Months later rumors circulated that my brother was dead, and no evidence to the contrary ever came up. Shortly thereafter Voldemort was destroyed, the remaining Death Eaters rounded up, and not one spoke a word about my brother's fate. No one seemed to know what had become of him, only that he was dead. I suspect that perhaps it was Voldemort himself who killed him._

 _I thought I had the measure of my brother when I ran away from home, but with each year I realize I knew him less and less. Ever since I learned your existence, I've been wondering about you—why Regulus would break propriety and have a child out of wedlock, and so young—no doubt our parents would have forced your mother into an abortion and paid her off had they known. Perhaps that's why Regulus kept you a secret from us all those years—to keep you safe from the Blacks._

 _I only know my brother as a child—a timid little boy that used to idolize me and follow me around as children. The man he grew up to be is entirely unknown to me, and I'm sorry that I cannot help you in your search by offering more than this. I still don't believe for a second that he's alive, hidden somewhere under a false name—but perhaps this will provide you a foundation with which to find closure._

 _If you need anything else, please write to me, given that you now know my address quite well. I'd prefer it if you didn't materialize on my doorstep as we don't seem to have to have the best luck interacting face to face._

 _All the best,_

 _Sirius_

Miram read and re-read the letter several times, soaking in each word like a sponge. Only after her third read-through did Miram remember the huge envelope, and gently laid out its contents on her bed. She set aside the photograph, and skimmed through all the news articles—articles about the Black family in society, Regulus's internship with the Ministry of Magic in the International Magical Cooperation Department, and a brief note in the gossip section highlighting which high-status families had children starting at Hogwarts that year. The list of names Black had provided were no doubt Regulus's friends in school, including the names of two well-known Death Eaters. There was also an address marked Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London, and a single brass key taped to the back of the card.

Miram gently placed everything back inside the envelope, storing it carefully in her trunk. She looked around her dismal motel room, sighing. She had what she came for, so there was no reason to stay in this armpit of a town. She ought to fly back to England and continue her search there, perhaps at the address Black had given her. Miram tossed her few belongings back into her trunk and checked out of the motel, but found that once she was back in the cracked parking lot, under the morning sun that hadn't reached its full intensity, that she realized she couldn't just leave now. Black's letter had made her feel unforgivably guilty for what she had said to him.

Miram groaned loudly, dropping her heavy trunk onto the pavement. She would just apologize, nothing more, and move on. Then her dealings with Black would be over, and the two would never have to deal with each other again.

* * *

Black didn't look surprised this time. He opened the door slowly, stepping back a few paces to let Miram pass, but she didn't move from her spot in the doorway.

"I got your letter," was all she could think to say.

Black looked like he hadn't slept all night. His normally clear eyes were shadowed, his dark hair unkempt. "Good," was the simple reply.

Miram adjusted her weight from one foot to the other. "Can I come in?" she finally asked, the heat creeping into her bones.

Black stepped back another pace, holding the door wide open. "Coffee?" he asked when Miram collapsed onto the couch, grateful for the enchanted air conditioning. He didn't wait for an answer, instead returning with two mismatched mugs and handing one to Miram.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you last night," Miram said, staring at the mug as she spoke. "And for showing up when you asked me not to. You had every right to be angry and kick me out."

Black sat down on the seat opposite her—they were in the same exact spots as the previous night.

"And I'm sorry for what I said to you, about the whole Azkaban thing," she added guiltily, shooting Black a furtive sideways glance. "That was uncalled for."

"What, calling me a knobhead?"

Miram pursed her lips. "That, too."

Black took a deep breath, but didn't reply. They sipped on their coffee in silence for a few minutes. Miram's gaze fell on the coffee table, which still held Harry Potter's address and the letter from Dumbledore, partially hidden.

"Does your aunt know you're here this time?"

Miram grimaced. "Ha, well, no…"

Black raised an eyebrow at that, discomfort flashing across his face.

"She kicked me out," Miram said flatly. "Threw all my things across the lawn."

Black's features softened as he frowned. "Why?"

Miram gave a half-shrug. "I'm a troubled child," she said sarcastically, trying to mask the hurt that the truth caused. "She never liked me—I think she only took me in because she thought she had no choice."

"Where does she expect you'll go?"

"Here," Miram suggested. "Or Diagon Alley. A friend's house. I don't think she really cares."

Miram had expected Black to contradict her, to scold her for speaking so poorly of her aunt, but he did no such thing. He watched her with a carefully-guarded expression, the faintest trace of sympathy evident in his tired grey eyes.

It was silent again, and it made Miram uncomfortable. She wasn't sure if she should stay or go. "So this key you sent me," she said, looking round at Black.

"It goes to the Black ancestral home in London," Black replied, sipping his coffee. "Only a Black can enter uninvited."

"Do I count?" Miram asked deprecatingly.

Black gave her a small smile. "Well, I've been disowned and I still inherited it." He hesitated, then added, "If you do decide to visit it, you ought to be very careful. I haven't stepped foot in that house in years, and I doubt anyone's done a thing to the place since my mother died. Knowing what she was like, I imagine there's all kinds of unpleasant things lurking in the darkness."

There was another long silence as they both sipped their coffee. Miram's eyes kept falling to the parchment on the table in front of her.

"So you're really not going to write Potter?" she asked.

Black gave a sort of non-committal half-shrug. "It's more complicated than that," he finally said. He gave Miram a stern look. "What exactly did you tell him?"

Miram shrugged, unnerved under Black's intense gaze. "Not much—just mostly that I was looking for information on my father when I came across your name—and by extension the Potters. I told him that I'd met you, and that you knew his parents quite well."

"That's it?"

Miram shrugged again. "Er, yeah—why, is there more?"

Black ran a hand down his tired face, rubbing his eyes. "So how is he doing, then?"

Miram shrugged, remembering the hostility with which Potter's muggle aunt slammed the door, the fact that Potter was hiding out in the bushes for no apparent reason other than to not be seen. "He's all right, I guess. His aunt's a real bitch," she let slip before she could stop herself. She shot a furtive look at Black, prepared to defend her use of language, but Black didn't comment on it. "I mean, I live with an aunt that doesn't want me either, but it's not like it's abusive or anything. People like her are just…" Miram struggled to find the word she wanted. "Ridiculous."

Black gave Miram another funny look, one with knitted brows and sympathetic eyes. "It's a lonely life for a child to grow up in a home where they know they're not wanted."

Miram forced her gaze away, straightening up in her spot on the couch. She didn't know if Black was referring to herself or Potter.

"So what else does Harry know?" Black asked, rubbing a tired hand over his eyes.

Miram shrugged again. "That's really it—that you were friends with his parents and could maybe tell him some stories."

Black gave her a long, silent look.

"Okay, and then I told him about all the stuff from the papers," Miram added hastily. "But I had to—I didn't want him to research you and read all about how you were a murderer—" Black opened his mouth to speak but Miram overrode him. "So I told him a watered-down version of the truth. And he was totally fine with it."

"He was fine getting in contact with a stranger who went to prison for murder and selling out his parents to Voldemort?" Black asked testily.

"It's not like any of that's actually true," Miram admonished. She stared at Black's disbelieving face, then asked, "What? You don't believe me?"

Black shook his head. "It's a lot to ask someone to accept, that's all."

Miram frowned. "Not really… I mean, I came all the way out here—what? Three times, now? And I still haven't gotten the funny feeling that you're going to hand me over to the Death Eaters." Black didn't reply, and Miram's frown softened. She chewed her tongue for a moment, then asked the question that was ready to burst out of her. "Do people really blame you for what happened?"

Black took a deep breath, looking off to the side at the sun rising through the windows. "It doesn't matter," he said, glancing at Miram. Black shrugged. "People believe what they believe."

Miram felt a tightness in her chest at those words. She felt an overwhelming surge of sympathy for Black suddenly. "Well," she said, clearing her throat and speaking in a carefully casual tone. "Harry's not like that at all. He doesn't care about being famous, he doesn't think he's special…all he wants is to know what his parents are like—I guess his aunt and uncle don't talk about them. So…I mean, do whatever you want. But you should know that Harry really wants to hear from you."

They sat in silence again, sipping their coffee as the sun climbed further up into the sky.

"When are you going back to England?" Black finally asked.

"My ticket's next week. I figured I could stick around in Washington, see if I can find any wizarding libraries there."

"So what about the last month of summer, then?" Black continued, sounding oddly parental. "Who are you staying with?"

Miram shrugged. "Myself. I'll figure it out."

Black raised an eyebrow at her.

"Look, I get that you think I'm too young to be on my own, but it's no big deal," she said sharply. "And it's only for a month, because then school picks back up."

"Do you have enough money for all that?"

"I'll get by."

Black stood up and disappeared down the hallway. Miram watched him return a moment later with a heavy locked box.

"I don't want your money," Miram said quickly, her voice stern.

Black gave her a level look as he opened the lock and withdrew a handful of coins. "It's not charity," he said, counting them out. "Technically you should have inherited my brother's wealth, so think of it like a withdrawal—"

"I don't need it," Miram insisted. "I didn't come out here to beg for money—Walburga made it perfectly clear to my mum—"

"My mother's dead and has no say in what I choose to do with my brother's estate," Black interrupted. "I can't just let you go back to Hogwarts with no money—"

"You're not my guardian, so it's not your business," Miram snapped. "I can take care of myself."

Black looked away, hesitating before putting the gold back into the box. "Okay," he said neutrally. He closed the lid before standing up stiffly and putting it back.

Miram sighed, leaning her head against the back of the couch and staring up at the ceiling. This was getting more complicated. At first she had just felt sorry for Black, but now she actually kind of liked him—and he obviously no longer considered her an interruption in his life, because now he was giving her advice and trying to give her gold. Having more than a passing relationship with Black was not in the plan.

There were footsteps behind her as Black shuffled into the kitchen. "So do you want breakfast, or is that considered charity, too?"

Miram joined him in the kitchen, sitting in her usual seat at the wooden table while Black cooked at the stove.

"So… Washington…" Black said after a few silent minutes.

Miram shrugged, biting into her toast. "It's something to do while I'm still here."

"Killing time?"

Miram swallowed. "Yeah." Black nodded, and Miram had the strange feeling that he was going to say something more. "Why?" she teased. "Wanna come?"

Black shook his head as he set down a plate of food in front of Miram. It was a watered-down version of a fry-up, but it smelled delicious. "No… I was just thinking, if you don't have a reason to go to DC other than to wait for a plane—you could stay here—"

"What, with you?" Miram interrupted, stunned.

"You don't have to, if it's weird," Black said quickly, turning back to the stove as he made himself a plate.

"You would actually let me stay in your secret hide-out?" Miram asked, grinning.

Black caught sight of her expression and frowned. He shook his head as he sat down across from her, taking a sip of coffee. "It's not a—"

"Of course I'd rather stay!" Miram exclaimed with such obvious enthusiasm that Black was forced to let a small smile creep onto his face. "The weather's bollocks, but this'll be awesome!"


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter five:

Mobile, Alabama had never been Sirius's intended final destination. Neither was anywhere in the States, for that matter. The half-truth Sirius told the others remained: it was as good a place as any.

In the year 1984, six months out of Azkaban, Sirius had been traveling by bus from Washington D.C. to Ixtapa, Mexico. He had flown across the Atlantic under a false name, taking great pains to travel the muggle way and switch up his false identities each step of the way. Grandfather Arcturus had some idea of where he was headed, but Sirius knew the old patriarch would die before divulging his final location. The Ministry had insisted on tracking Sirius's current address, which always somehow became public record—the journalists lived outside his door day and night, pursuing his every movement. Anytime he opened a window or cracked a door, bright bulbs flashed and questions were shouted through the walls. The rubbish he threw out was stolen and examined, published in the next day's paper. A lone wine bottle became evidence that Sirius was a drunkard. Leftovers indicated that he was holing himself up. A constant pile of paper coffee cups and sandwich wrappers littered his doorstep, permanent outposts of the media.

For months Sirius had attempted to avoid them by keeping multiple apartments. He lived out of a single rucksack containing his basic needs: toiletries, clothes, money…Sirius had borrowed an old wand from Arcturus Black that was stubborn and finicky until he felt brave enough to face the shitstorm that would be the trip to Ollivander's.

"I am sorry to hear your wand was destroyed," Ollivander remarked as he moved through the dusty shelves. His expression was careful, guarded. Sirius was sure the only thing Ollivander was sorry about was the fact that the destroyed wand had been one of his own creation. "Unfortunately it is not our practice to make duplicates—instead we will just have to match you with a new, more suitable wand."

Sirius had hoped the trip would be accomplished in twenty minutes, but it took the better part of an hour before a new wand was found. In this time curious faces pressed up against the glass, gawking at the ex-convict in the wand shop. By the time Sirius was ringing out, journalists from three separate magazines had appeared in the doorway, shouting questions over each other and fighting for the best angles to take unwelcome photographs.

It wasn't long before people found the apartments—Ministry members, the media, overzealous busybodies who fancied themselves a couple of vigilantes. Sometimes Sirius found his flats ransacked and investigated, although there was never anything lying around worth looking through. Twice Sirius found listening devices hidden away in his flat. Each step he took was documented and published, his every move constantly up for discussion in the _Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly, The Quibbler,_ the _Wizarding Free Press,_ and even articles in _Transfiguration Weekly._ He was the most-discussed wizard in Europe; Rita Skeeter in particular dubbed him "the Wizard You Love to Hate!" and it somehow became his descriptive tagline in every gossip column and tabloid.

Sirius declined every attempt to interview, ignored every question posed to him while he did tasks as mundane as shop for groceries or take out the rubbish. His daily wardrobe consisted of a hoodie pulled over his head and a pair of sunglasses. He kept his head down as much as possible, but with the Ministry running his name through the mud and the media going wild over it, keeping a low profile was impossible. He was living in a glass fishbowl.

The first order of each day was sorting through the piles of mail for anything important—official Ministry correspondence usually. Sirius had hoped to see letters from Remus and the others, but each morning the pile was mostly hate mail or publicity requests. The rest of this Sirius chucked into the fireplace and burned out of fear that some of the letters might contain something more heinous than Bubotuber Pus.

When a few wizards had been apprehended for outright stalking Sirius, an ailing Arcturus insisted his grandson move back in to the Black family home for his protection, but both Sirius and Walburga would have none of it. Walburga insisted Sirius was no longer her blood and therefore not welcome, while Sirius in turn explained to Arcturus that he would rather go back to Azkaban than to live under Walburga's roof again. Unable to sway his grandson's opinion while Walburga was involved, Arcturus had agreed to arrange a false muggle identity and an escort out of the country, completely unbeknownst to the Ministry.

Once landing in Washington, Sirius took no chances when it came to being tracked. He bought a ticket to Alaska under the false name, but never took it. Instead Sirius marched outside into the bitter cold and caught a ride on a bus with a second fake name, heading for Mexico. The Greyhound bumbled along the highway for two days, stopping occasionally to pick up new riders and drop off the old ones at their destinations. The bus travelled further and further south until it broke down twenty kilometers outside of Mobile, Alabama. The riders were shuttled to the bus station in Mobile, where they were offered coupons for a nearby motel and given vouchers to catch the next bus to Mexico, which wouldn't be in for another three days.

Sirius killed time that first day by heading for the nearest restaurant, a bright yellow building labeled "Waffle House." It was nearly midnight, but it was one of the few establishments open at this hour.

"You're not from around here!" the waitress exclaimed genially. "What brings you all the way down to Mobile?"

Moh-beel. In Sirius's mind he had been pronouncing it wrong. The woman's accent was thick and slow, almost musical. It was entirely unlike the accent Sirius had heard in Washington, full of long cadences and honey. Something about it was soothing, even welcoming.

If Sirius had to give a real reason why he chose to stay in Mobile, Alabama, he would say it was because of that night in the Waffle House. The waitress accepted Sirius's response at face-value, didn't probe him further about when he was going home or why he had left in the first place. It was obvious Sirius didn't blend in with the locals—his mannerisms were all wrong, too formal. His speech gave him away in a heartbeat. But each person he ran into was as welcoming as the next, allowing Sirius into the fold without question.

It had been over nine years since Sirius staked out his house in the deep woods off Mobile Bay, safely hidden from probing eyes. Arcturus had allowed Sirius a few years of reprieve from the Ministry by keeping Mobile a secret, but after his death, Walburga couldn't be bothered. In 1989 Sirius was forced to register his address with the Ministry. This meant annual visits and the constant feeling of being watched. Sirius grew paranoid of the media following him, and had implemented every enchantment on his property that he could think of. Anti-apparition, anti-mapping, anti- everything. The only witches and wizards who could stumble upon his house had to know exactly what they were looking for.

In those nine years in Mobile, Sirius had received contact from the wizarding world in England exactly five times: the first was from Grandfather Arcturus, the second from Arcturus's executor to inform Sirius that he had died. The next two were both from the Ministry, first notifying Sirius that he had inherited the Black estate after Walburga's death, and secondly that he would have to endure annual "wellness" visits. The last and final letter came at the end of 1991, informing Sirius that the Ministry had decided to renew their Order of Protection for Harry Potter for an additional five years.

In the decade of banishment that had passed, not once did Sirius receive news from his old friends, or even the Headmaster and Order leader, Albus Dumbledore. Once he had been freed from Azkaban, it was as though Sirius was a complete stranger to everyone he had known. Only Arcturus Black had reached out, though it was less for Sirus's benefit and more for the future and reputation of the Black family. No one wanted to step into the spotlight and reach out to the supposed murderer; no one was willing to become part of the circus show that was Sirius's new life of freedom.

Remus Lupin's notable silence hurt the most. Sirius had secretly tracked his old friend down, wondering if perhaps Remus hadn't actually survived the end of the war. He found the man living in a small flat in central London, renting out his deceased parents' house for income. Remus was working odd jobs, washing dishes for the Leaky Cauldron and caring for the owls at the Post Office. He was distinctively alive, albeit a little shabby-looking, and therefore had no excuse Sirius could accept for his clear abandonment.

The combination of being scrutinized from every angle like a specimen in a glass and being outright shunned drove Sirius into a dark cloud of bitterness. People had refused to make eye contact, getting up from bar seats and leaving their spots in line just to get away from him. Sirius was told by more than one establishment not to return as he was losing them business. Being court-ordered to stay away from his godson was the final, unbearable blow. Sirius had half a mind to crash his motorcycle into the middle of the Atlantic, but decided that leaving his home and world would be less dramatic.

Those nine years passed in relative quiet. Sirius had more than enough gold to live ten times over, but took up jobs and hobbies that kept his hands and mind busy. He learned how to fish and maintenance a boat, how to repair hurricane damage to a house, and how to raise much of his own food. His pale skin quickly browned in his new climate, his hair taking on a previously unknown curl from the humidity. His starved body became lean and wiry, hands and feet heavily calloused. Gradually Sirius started to look less like himself, and he sometimes wondered if his life leading up to 1984 even belonged to him.

He was a man without a past, present, or future, and yet somehow he kept on living. He had a false name and a house that never felt like home, things he used to occupy the days that passed. In the back of his mind was the constant, steady nagging; the urge to go back to the place that was once home, but no longer existed. Home was blown off the map and everyone tied to it was gone. Sirius himself felt like he had gone too, that it was his ghost that woke each morning.

Sirius would have accepted losing his identity entirely if it weren't for a single teenager showing up on his porch in June, 1992.

Miram had his face, or his old one at least—slender cheekbones, grey eyes, and soft dark hair. For a wild moment Sirius wracked his brain to figure if the girl could somehow be his, but he was sure none of the timelines matched up. That left only one other possibility, and it seemed somehow more outrageous.

"Regulus was my father," she had said, and as she spoke, Sirius knew it must be true. She looked remarkably like him, yet she carried herself in a way that was more defiant, more falsely confident.

It was clear from the beginning that Sirius had no idea how to talk to teenagers, despite having been one himself in a time that felt so long ago. He tried to kick her out, as though by her leaving Sirius could somehow go back to his routine and act like the world he left behind hadn't continued on without him. That a baby girl grew up looking for her father, a girl that looked too much like Sirius and was undoubtedly around the same age as Harry, hadn't ever existed.

Miram carried herself in a way that didn't match her youthful appearance, as though she had spent years pretending to be someone much older. She looked at Sirius with a determined expression, one Sirius recognized from his own friends's faces during the war. But this girl was fourteen, maybe fifteen; she was the product of a war-torn time, but had never actually seen it for herself. She set her jaw the same way Regulus did when trying to get his way, and she watched Sirius with the same quiet attentiveness Regulus was known for.

Every fiber of Sirius's being was screaming at him to get rid of her. Miram was bridging the gap between Sirius and the world he had left behind. There could be no pretending it had never existed when a product of his past was sitting at his kitchen table, asking for a cigarette, demanding information about Regulus. The memories came flooding back, carefully-stored visions of his past rushing to the surface. Sirius kept seeing Regulus when he looked at Miram, and her youthfulness reminded him of his friends. Of how he couldn't save them. Of how he had been locked in Azkaban and blamed to make sense of a senseless killing.

More frightening was the hunger that grew in his soul, overtaking every fiber of his being. Never before was the urge to reach out to his old life so strong. The memories of the cool air, the smell from the Leaky Cauldron at suppertime, the feel of wool robes and heavy gold Galleons against his skin came flooding back, so real that Sirius was sure he could reach out and feel it.

Then the Ministry showed up.

Sirius had half-expected the paranoia had died down, but as he found himself handcuffed in his own house, he knew he was dead wrong. He hadn't done anything illegal, of course, but it was a power play—a message that clearly said _don't come back._ Any half-fantasized hope of returning to England vanished quickly. It was a cruel reminder, but an effective one. It didn't matter how Sirius felt about England—no one there wanted him back. Telling himself he wouldn't want them anyway was just a way to soften the blow. To make the sting of abandonment less painful.

Slapped back into reality, Sirius quickly tripled his workload and made sure his hands were working on something from sun-up to sun-down. The fresh anger killed any desire to return to Europe, but then, barely a week later, a sixth letter arrived from the wizarding world.

For years Sirius had been expecting to hear from Dumbledore, but he was still surprised to see the familiar, elegant handwriting on the letter's outside. Sirius didn't open it immediately, instead watching it suspiciously as he smoked or attempted to clean or fix something. Sirius had far too many expectations of Dumbledore to just tear into the letter right away; he would have to steel himself for whatever it was that Dumbledore thought was important enough to break a twelve-year silence.

 _Sirius_

 _I hope this letter finds you well. It is my understanding that you're currently living abroad, and while I am confident my correspondence will arrive in a timely matter, I must burden you with the request of a swift response._

 _Hogwarts has found itself in need of a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Your old colleague Remus Lupin has taken up the post, but due to the nature of his required absences from teaching, we are still in need of a part-time faculty member. Given the unique nature of the situation, I thought that you might be an excellent fit._

 _Please reply with your response as soon as possible, as I will have to contact—_

Sirius had to stop reading. His heart was beating furiously against his chest and his stomach had leapt into his throat. Sirius paced around his living room in agitation, shooting furtive looks at the mostly-read letter.

It sat there, open, for the better part of the next day. Sirius couldn't bring himself to burn it—the offer was so absurd that Sirius knew there had to be some ulterior motive. Sirius was sure he was one of the last people on earth Dumbledore would offer a teaching position to otherwise. He wanted to ignore the offer, or perhaps respond with something sarcastic and biting, but the obvious benefit of teaching at Hogwarts was too strong to ignore.

Harry would be there.

* * *

It had been years since Sirius traveled so far from his home in Mobile. Dumbledore's invitation cleared the way for magical transportation into England, but Sirius booked a plane ticket and defiantly traveled the muggle way. He hated flying, whether on brooms or airplanes, but it was infinitely preferable to enter England with the least amount of attention.

The plane ride was relatively smooth, a slow eight hours of questioning every move that had led Sirius to this point. Leaving Washington DC seemed like a chore, but as they got closer and closer to England, Sirius started to feel the claws of dread creeping in. The plane landed in Heathrow at half past seven in the evening, local time. Sirius moved through Customs under his false muggle identity, watching the indifferent masses around him, all eager to move on to their final destinations while he debated turning around.

It was July, but London still felt chilly compared to the relentless heat to which Sirius had grown accustomed. The faces seemed to look different, too, somehow. Sirius couldn't fight the feeling that he somehow stood out; it seemed to only be a matter of time before someone called him out. Sirius ducked into an alley just outside of the airport, clenching his fingers tightly around his wand. He couldn't fight the paranoid thought that the Ministry would somehow know he was back if he used magic here.

The Leaky Cauldron looked exactly the same as it had when Sirius had last been here nearly ten years before. He was sure even some of the patrons hadn't left their posts at the bar. No one took more than half a glance his way as Sirius took the dozen hesitant steps toward Tom the innkeeper.

"What'll it be, son?" he asked without looking up from the glasses he was lining back up on the shelves.

Sirius cleared his throat, drumming his fingers in silent anxiety against the bar. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was an invisible target on his back. "Er, a room, please. Two nights."

Tom turned to look at him as Sirius spoke—a full five seconds of direct eye contact. Sirius had expected recognition and then horror to dawn on the old inkeeper's face, but Tom simply moved toward the back of the bar, where he kept a cabinet full of room keys. He picked one off at random before handing it over. "Room eight's all yours. Mind you watch the writing desk there—we haven't gotten the ghoul to clear out yet."

"Er, thanks," Sirius replied quickly, turning on his heel to disappear in the safety of his room.

"I'm gonna need a name," Tom called before Sirius had quite taken two steps.

Sirius fell back hesitantly. "Er…John Hipworth," he said, using his false muggle identity.

"Right," Tom said, making note of it in some book he kept under the bar. He smiled toothlessly up at Sirius. "All set."

Room eight was at the end of a long, narrow corridor, tucked away next to the stairs that led to the next landing. Sirius quickly locked the door and windows, closing the curtains swiftly before he let out his breath. He tossed his bag onto the four poster bed before sinking onto its edge, looking around the room. The wallpaper was faded, and there were dark shadows were old portraits had previously hung. The four poster was accompanied by an old writing desk and a wide wardrobe, which left very little space in the small room.

Sirius laid back and stared up at the ceiling. He hadn't eaten since leaving DC, but couldn't work up an appetite to surpass the nausea that was forming in his stomach. It wasn't too late to turn around and go back to Mobile, but a nagging curiosity was driving Sirius to go through with this meeting. The same question kept relaying over and over in his mind: _why was Dumbledore offering him a job?_

Why was he breaking a twelve-year silence?

* * *

"You're serious."

There was an uncomfortable silence at that. Dumbledore laced his fingers together on top of his desk.

Sirius scoffed, shaking his head. "Okay," he said slowly, biting back the humorless laughter that was threatening to erupt. He straightened up in his chair. "Please explain to me how the two of you thought up this _ingenious_ plan."

The portraits lining the office walls stirred, frowning—they did not approve of this intruder's rude tone, but were much too nosy to butt in and say so. Gossip was more important than defending the Headmaster's honor. Dumbledore sat calmly behind his desk, watching Sirius studiously—always observing. His hands were folded contentedly in front of him, and the bright summer light flooding the office illuminated tiny particles of dust dancing in the air between them.

Against his better judgment Sirius had travelled all the way to England to meet with Dumbledore. He hadn't stepped foot inside Hogwarts since his own schooldays, and the walls brought back a flood of memories that Sirius was sure Azkaban had stolen. He had to fight the faces and voices that filled his head with each reminder he passed on his way to Dumbledore's office—the secret passageways, suits of armor he and James had often hidden behind, the wax-covered chandeliers he spent countless nights cleaning in detention…

"The facts remain the same," Dumbledore said calmly. "Remus has agreed to take up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—coupled with Professor Sinistra's intended maternity leave this year, I am in need of a part-time faculty member. Given that you are already familiar with Remus's lycanthropy, it only seemed logical to offer the position to you."

Sirius gave Dumbledore a long, level look, but the Headmaster didn't flinch.

"You're offering me a job—a _teaching_ job—simply because I already know about his lycanthropy."

"It seemed wise to minimize the number of people aware of his condition, yes," Dumbledore replied.

"What does the Ministry think of this offer?" Sirius asked, his tone anything but innocent. He sat perfectly still, but drummed his fingers in agitation against the chair's armrest.

For the first time, Dumbledore hesitated for a split second. It was fleeting, and if Sirius hadn't been waiting for it, he might have missed it altogether. "As Headmaster, the responsibility of appointing staff lies with me—Cornelius has trusted my judgment in the past."

"Has he?" Sirius asked idly.

Dumbledore raised his head just half an inch—his face was the same calm, passive expression, but there was something sharp in his blue eyes now. Sirius was glad the old man picked up on the real conversation they were secretly having.

 _The Ministry would have listened to you, but you left me in Azkaban._

"Sirius, you have been out of the country for nine, almost ten years," Dumbledore continued, the hard look from his eye gone. "Attitudes have changed—"

"Obviously not," Sirius interrupted.

"How so?" Dumbledore asked politely.

"Well, most recently," Sirius began with sarcastic civility. "A few members of the Ministry showed up unannounced and handcuffed me in my own living room, threatening to send me back to Azkaban."

If Dumbledore was surprised by this, he didn't show it. "That is most unfortunate—it is lucky, then, that your job will allow you to stay in the safety of Hogwarts, away from overzealous Law Enforcement Patrol."

"It's not just being falsely arrested again—although I will say that is still a valid concern of mine," Sirius said more seriously. "But you'll have to excuse me if I prefer not to be stared at and followed around like some monster on display."

"Have my staff not been friendly to you?" Dumbledore challenged. "Did Tom not accept your preference to rent out a room under a false identity?"

Sirius's eyes narrowed as he stared at the Headmaster. "How many people did you have to ask to force civility before I came out here?"

"If you require graciousness and open warmth in all your interactions here, I would be happy to make that request known," Dumbledore said. "Although I would recommend you treat my staff with equal consideration if this is the case."

Sirius gave Dumbledore a long look, wondering what the old Headmaster was really fishing for. Dumbledore was Chief Warlock and a top member of the Wizengamot. He practically had the Minister eating out of his hand—so of course Dumbledore knew about the Protection Order, the annual harassment visits by the Ministry… there was a real reason Dumbledore wanted Sirius back, not only in England, but close by. The teaching position was just a cover, and Dumbledore truly seemed to believe that Sirius would fall for it.

"Let's get to the _real_ reason I'm here," Sirius said sharply, straightening up in his seat. "We both know you're not offering me a job because you want me to teach," he said without apology. "You want me to come back to England, but you want to keep an eye on me, or else there's something more important than classes you want my help with—I'm trying to figure out which it is. Or perhaps you're simply vetting me for something else—either way, you'll have more success if you just come out with it, Dumbledore."

There was a frozen silence at that. Dumbledore's face hadn't changed even a fraction of an inch, but there was a hardness in his eyes. The portraits whispered to their neighbors, watching the uncomfortable interview with rapt attention.

Sirius hadn't actually expected Dumbledore to answer, but the old man gave a heavy sigh. "There are a multitude of reasons, each more convoluted than the last. But I will share with you the most pressing, which is the rumor of Lord Voldemort's return to England."

Sirius gave Dumbledore an impatient look. He resisted the urge to say something sarcastic. "Voldemort's gone."

"But not destroyed."

Sirius sighed, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. This interview was growing more absurd with each word.

"You are, of course, a loose string," Dumbledore continued somberly. "I prefer to avoid having too many loose strings, you see, and for as long as you remained overseas it would be almost impossible to keep track of you."

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "What, to see if I feel like joining the Death Eaters?"

"An unlikely possibility, but a possibility nonetheless," Dumbledore allowed, ignoring the sarcasm. "I consider it more likely that the remaining Death Eaters will attempt to restore Voldemort to power, and in either the process or immediate aftermath, they will come for you."

Sirius's brows knit together. He looked at Dumbledore for a long moment, but the Headmaster didn't elaborate. "That's absurd," he finally said.

"You are the closest link to Harry—"

Sirius laughed humorlessly at that. "You're joking, right?" He felt disgust rising in his throat. "I've been _banned_ from even so much as sending him a knut for his birthday. I haven't seen Harry since—since that night—"

"I am aware of the Order of Protection," Dumbledore said gravely. "I was the one who filed for it."

There was a ringing silence. Sirius felt like the earth had suddenly dropped from underneath him. Dumbledore's words hit like a blow that knocked the air out of Sirius's lungs. A chair scraped loudly against the stone floor, and Sirius was halfway to the door before an invisible force stopped him. He turned around to glare at Dumbledore, who was still sitting calmly at his desk. Sirius had to take a deep breath to steady himself. He could feel his hands trembling with the urge to smash something. "Let me go."

"Not before you hear me out."

"Hear you out?" he repeated coolly, his patience snapping. "Why the fuck should I hear you out? I don't remember you hearing me out when you lot carted me off to Azkaban—"

There were angry whispers like a swarm of bees in the office as the old portraits muttered to themselves. Sirius still couldn't move past the invisible barrier surrounding the office door, and he had to fight the irrational panic he felt at being trapped. Imprisoned.

"While I do not expect you to believe me, I will nevertheless tell you that it was not my desire to separate you from Harry after you were released from Azkaban," Dumbledore said gravely. "If there is one thing I have learned in my lifetime, it is that our intimate desires do not always align with the reality of the situation. I did not want to under-estimate your love for Harry or your stubbornness, and so it became obvious to me that I would have to keep you away from him by force. Harry is safest with his aunt and uncle, you see, and I could not risk anything that might interfere with that."

"Twelve years," Sirius said dangerously, his voice wavering with over a decade of repressed anger. His head was swimming, and all he could think about was punching Dumbledore's patient face. He could hear his voice rising with each word. "It's been _twelve years_ since I've seen him, and you're expecting me to just—let it go? Because you thought Harry was safer around _muggles?"_

"Lily's protection of Harry continues on in her sister's blood," Dumbledore told him seriously. "For as long as Harry lives under that roof and can call that house home, the protection remains: Voldemort cannot touch him."

Sirius felt like the ground had crumbled away beneath him. He didn't notice the stares of the former Headmasters. There was only Dumbledore, sitting resolutely at his desk and calmly explaining the depth of his manipulation. "You could have told me," Sirius said weakly, voice wavering precariously.

"In retrospect, yes," said Dumbledore gravely, straightening his half-moon spectacles. "It is peculiar how much hindsight affords us when what we need most is foresight. The short answer is that I did not trust you enough nine years ago—not only was there still uncertainty regarding the deaths of your friends, but I did not know what damage, if any, Azkaban may have done to you. I had no guarantee that you would not disappear halfway around the world with Harry, making it nearly impossible to monitor or guarantee his safety. And when you _did_ disappear, my uncertainty remained."

Sirius shut his eyes, pressing his palms roughly against his temples. He felt like his head might explode and his brain would spill out. "I can't believe you."

"It is unfortunate," Dumbledore said gravely. "But I am sure that if you set aside your own emotions, you will agree—"

"What he fuck is wrong with you?" Sirius roared. There were angry tears threatening to spill, but he didn't care anymore. "We're human beings! You can't just manipulate people's lives like that! James trusted Harry to _me,_ not you—and for you to just—just _banish_ me like that, after everything I sacrificed for you—"

"Sirius—"

"Go to hell—"

A few portraits yelled out their displeasure at Sirius, but he ignored them. "And now you're trying to manipulate me again—by dangling Harry in front of me after keeping him away from me for so long—"

"Perhaps you could use a few minutes alone to regain your faculties," Dumbledore suggested. He stood up, but Sirius wasn't cowed.

"You're a fucking arsehole—" he hissed, taking a threatening step forward. "Why the fuck should I help you?"

Dumbledore straightened up, fixing Sirius with a long look, just the faintest hint of annoyance on his face. "You may continue to yell and insult me if it will improve your temperament, but it does not change the past, nor will it change my mind."

Sirius sat down on the stone steps roughly, his head between his knees. He was trying to fight the crushing pain the truth had caused—the last thing he felt like doing was crying in Dumbledore's office. Anger was surging through his blood, a dizzying, electrical force that demanded action. Sirius wanted to lash out and destroy Dumbledore's office, destroy everything in his path until the Ministry showed up to cart him off to Azkaban a second time.

Finally the anger had ebbed into a dull glow from the white-hot force it had been, and Sirius was able to think more clearly. He rubbed his temples, taking a steadying breath as he heard Dumbledore walking casually toward the windows. "So what changed?" Sirius asked dully without looking up or moving from his spot on the floor.

"As I said, Voldemort has returned to England," Dumbledore said calmly without turning around. "You are a likely target, and it is too difficult to monitor your situation from overseas."

"I don't want your protection."

"I thought as much, but unfortunately due to your connection to Harry, it is no longer your choice."

Sirius shut his eyes. He had a blinding headache. "What are you talking about?"

"You can override the Dursley's guardianship over Harry and remove him from that home," Dumbledore told him seriously. "By doing so, the protection is gone."

A red-hot wave of anger rose in his throat at the insinuation. "I would _never—"_

"Not willingly, no," Dumbledore agreed. "But you see the loophole, don't you?"

Sirius sighed heavily. He was regretting coming here at all. He had intended to call out Dumbledore on his manipulative ways, but this was too much—he wasn't ready for this. "So if Voldemort's back, as you say—what else are you doing to stop him?"

"I'm afraid I cannot tell you that."

Sirius snorted. "Right. Obviously."

"It is more than a matter of trust," Dumbledore told him. "And I will not pretend to assume that I have your trust, either. It will require those of us who know the truth to act now, before it becomes too late—"

Sirius shut his eyes tightly, pressing the palm of his hand into his forehead. "Enough with the vague riddles—"

"To start, a locket has gone missing from the Black ancestral home two days ago," Dumbledore said bluntly, no twinkle in his blue eyes. "It was a locket of great importance, and I had hoped to gain access to it to confirm or deny my suspicions about…certain properties it may contain."

Sirius raised an eyebrow. His family had hoarded Dark objects over the centuries, so the idea of a locket being valuable wasn't in itself strange—but to go through the trouble of a fake teaching position? Dumbledore would have had better luck breaking in— _if he could,_ Sirius thought dubiously. Perhaps Dumbledore had already tried and failed—maybe this was actually Plan B.

"As I said, the locket is now gone—Phineas reports the old House-Elf was quite distressed by it, hammering on about a young woman gaining access to the house. We both know only members of the Black family can gain entry, but no female Blacks have been there in years."

 _Miram._

"What is the locket?" Sirius asked, looking up. "And if it's gone, as you've said, why still offer me a fake teaching job?"

"A potential link to Lord Voldemort."

"Meaning?"

"I am afraid I will not answer that," Dumbledore said dismissively. "But I assure you, the teaching post is very real, even if my reasons for hiring you are…unconventional."

"So you expect I'll just do whatever you want without being told why?" Sirius challenged.

"I am offering you one chance to come back to England with almost no cost," Dumbledore said, irritation evident in his voice now. "At Hogwarts, you will receive my protection and my word on your character—I am not blind to the fact that my opinion holds more weight than that of most other wizards. In addition to my protection, you will have the chance to get to know Harry—"

Sirius scoffed at that. "Oh my god," he muttered, running a trembling hand over his face.

"You will not have an opportunity like this again, Sirius," Dumbledore said coolly. "You may of course turn me down—you can walk out of my office right now. But the fact that you are still sitting here suggests to me that you might be persuaded to come back."

"You're bargaining my _godson_ to get me to come back to England?" Sirius demanded, white hot anger pounding against his skull.

"Yes, if one wishes to phrase my offer so bluntly."

"And what about everyone else?" Sirius asked coolly. "You have the Ministry in your pocket, but what about all the parents who might be concerned to learn a murderer is teaching their children?"

Dumbledore wasn't baited by Sirius's tone. "Public opinion is already in your favor—now that the war is a distant memory in most people's minds, the wizarding community is holding the Ministry accountable for its actions—releasing previously secret information, pardoning past suspects… I think you will find assimilation easier than you are anticipating."

"So if I take this job, and mindlessly do whatever you ask of me," Sirius asked, sighing heavily. "What exactly becomes of my relationship to Harry?"

"I would strongly urge that you do not divulge more than is necessary," Dumbledore replied flatly.

"So don't tell him who I really am?" Sirius asked dully.

Dumbledore sighed. "I cannot stop you from telling Harry anything," he said. "But I would trust that your concern over Harry's safety outweighs all else—"

"So you're keeping him in the dark?" Sirius asked, eyebrows raised. "Have you told him anything? Does he know about Voldemort?"

"Only what was necessary to tell him."

Sirius's eyebrows rose even further in disbelief. "Are you serious?" he demanded. The portraits of old Headmasters were whispering furiously around the room."He doesn't know about the prophecy, or about how he survived?"

"Sirius—"

"I mean, shit, does he even know he's a wizard?"

Dumbledore took a few steps forward, and the sudden movement triggered a silence around the office. "Since the day I learned about the prophecy regarding Voldemort and Harry, I have worked diligently to ensure Harry's safety—if this is of importance to you, then we are on the same side. I will not tell you everything, Sirius, and you will have to live with that. If you find that you can 'follow me blindly,' as you put it, to ensure Harry's safety—then I offer my protection and a place at Hogwarts. If not, then you are free to return home and trust that I will not bother you again.

"Now," Dumbledore continued. Sirius watched as he conjured up a contract and set it down on the desk. "I will leave this here for you to do as you please. If you have any further questions regarding the post, I believe Remus will be able to answer them for you. He is currently in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classrooms, should you wish to call upon him. In the meantime, I will leave you to deliberate in the privacy of my quarters." With that, Dumbledore swept from his own office, letting his door slam a little louder than necessary.

"How _dare_ you speak to the Headmaster that way, boy!" shouted one of the portraits. There was a murmuring of agreement.

Sirius rolled his eyes and got to his feet stiffly. He felt nauseous. His had no desire to work for a manipulative old bastard, but if what he said about Voldemort was true, that there was a possibility he would go after Harry… Sirius grabbed one of Dumbledore's quills and signed his name without reading the contract, unable to ignore the feeling that he was somehow signing his own death warrant.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter six:

Grimmauld Place was an enormous townhouse on the heart of London; a politician's house. Number Twelve sat nestled between its muggle counterparts, quiet and unassuming from the outside. Miram brushed a stray lock of hair from her face as she stared up at its stone exterior. The windows were shuttered and dark, grimy from years of neglect. Weeds were climbing around the stoop, long tendrils of ivy threatening to overtake the eastern façade. Miram clutched the key in her pocket, reflecting on its cool, heavy weight.

 _I imagine there's all kinds of unpleasant things in the darkness_ came a familiar voice in the back of Miram's head.

Miram took a deep breath, crossing the wide stone steps to the front door. She blew at a couple of cobwebs obscuring the handle before wrestling the key inside. The lock clicked several times and the key grew unnaturally warm in Miram's hand until finally the heavy door swung open.

The entryway was cool and dimly lit. Dust at least two inches thick covered the floor, the furniture, everything. Wallpaper was peeling in great ribbons, dusty cobwebs hung from the portraits and light fixtures, and there was debris accumulating in little piles throughout the corners of the house. Miram gently shut the door behind her, jumping at the loud echo it made in the empty silence.

The entrance was grand, as all foyers of great wizarding houses are. The ceiling extended to the second floor, the walls covered in portraits of sleeping, important witches and wizards. Overhead a crystal chandelier the size of a muggle car hung quietly, the centerpiece to the front room. Yet several crystals were clearly missing, the davenports lining the peeling walls were moth-eaten, and there was a wet, musty smell lingering in the air. Miram held out her wand ahead of her protectively, carefully ascending the huge, winding staircase at the other end of the front room.

Miram fought the urge to go exploring the creepy, old house—the long, dim corridors and partially-open doors taunted her, inviting Miram in to explore their forgotten contents. Black had told Miram no one had lived in this house since Walburga Black died, and that much was clear. But instead of furniture carefully covered by sheets and important relics preserved, it looked as though the house had died alongside her, forgotten and untouched. The day the old Black matriarch died was the last day any living being had walked the floors of Grimmauld Place.

Or so Miram thought, until she saw a set of faded, tiny footprints on the third floor landing.

Miram remembered Black's warning, about strange creatures breeding in the dark recesses of the house. She had been expecting doxies and spiders, not creatures large enough to fit into baby shoes.

The fifth and final floor of the house was much smaller, consisting of an expansive landing and two doors facing each other on opposite sides. Miram had only intended on exploring Regulus's room, but the door marked "Sirius" was too tempting to pass up.

The wide room was in disarray—bedding had been pulled back halfway to the floor, the drawers yanked out of their shelves and the wardrobe's contents spilling out. Heavy, sun-bleached curtains framed the two large windows and gave off a faint buzzing sound, signaling a doxy nest. The fireplace on the opposite side of the bedroom was still soot-blackened, shattered relics littering its mantle.

Miram stepped inside carefully, her footsteps muted by the plushness of the dust-covered rug beneath her feet. Faded Gryffindor banners were plastered to the walls alongside posters of motorcycles and bikini-clad girls. Vintage Zonko's products filled the empty spaces on a bookshelf, the windowsill, even the floor. Forgotten clothes were tossed haphazardly onto the musty bed. This was clearly the bedroom of a teenage boy, but it had the eerie look of being suddenly abandoned on short-notice.

Black had said he was disowned after running away, and Miram wondered why Walburga had left his old bedroom the way it was—surely the old Matriarch hadn't approved of the scantily-clad girls, or the obvious muggle influence in the room's décor.

Miram stepped carefully out of Black's old bedroom, stepping delicately across the fifth floor landing before reaching a closed door marked "Regulus." Beneath the nameplate was a handwritten sign reading "Do Not Enter Without The Express Permission of Regulus Arcturus Black." Miram ran her fingers over the old parchment before taking hold of the brass doorknob. She half-expected it to be locked, but was pleasantly surprised when the handle gave way easily enough in her hand.

Regulus's bedroom was vastly different than that of his elder brother. It was smaller, but neat and orderly in spite of the collection of dust and peeling wallpaper. The bed had emerald linens neatly tucked into place, and heavy drapes around the four-poster to match. The wardrobe and dresser were a handsome, matching set, and the delicate personal effects were laid out neatly on their surfaces. Miram opened the wardrobe cautiously, her eyes falling over a series of old robes and a neat row of shoes of varying formality, all in order. She was tempted to pull everything out, but the fear of a hidden ghoul stopped her from really touching anything. The clothes in the dresser were neatly folded as well; the tie pins and cuff links all delicately laid out in their place.

The walls in this room were mostly bare in comparison to Black's collage of muggle pictures, but Regulus had hung up a few posters and newspaper clippings detailing the Wizarding Reform Party, the political springboard of the Death Eaters.

In terms of personal effects, there really wasn't much. All of Regulus's clothes seemed rather uniform, his old textbooks were neatly lined up on a shelf, and his desk held nothing but old parchment, broken quills, and half-dried bottles of ink. There were a few old photographs on the mantle, two of the Slytherin Quidditch team and another of what Miram assumed to be the Black family. A stern-looking old man sat front and center in a high-backed chair, flanked by a younger Walburga and a man Miram assumed to be her husband. Sitting in the foreground were two young boys, not much older than ten or so. Behind the photographs was an enormous painting of a family crest, framed in elegantly-carved mahogany and taking up most of the silk-papered wall.

Miram found an old pocket watch, an ornate silver piece nestled carefully among folded socks in the top drawer of the dresser. It wouldn't pop open, but Miram decided to slip it into her own jeans pocket anyway—she felt better at the thought of carrying something of her father's with her.

A sudden creak made Miram jump and whip around, her wand pointing directly to the empty doorway.

"How did she get in, Kreacher wonders?" came a hoarse, low voice.

Miram's heart was beating furiously against her chest. "Who's there?" she called out with much more confidence than she felt.

Another creak, and the ugliest creature Miram had ever seen suddenly appeared in the doorway, barely two feet tall. It was obviously old; the creature had a hunched back and tufts of white hair coming out of its ears. It was wearing little more than a filthy old pillowcase draped like a toga. The creature gave Miram a searching look, its large golden eyes narrowed in ardent curiosity.

"Who are you?" Miram demanded, dropping her wand a few inches to point it at the creature.

"Only members of the great and noble House of Black can enter Mistress's house," the creature muttered, more for its own benefit than for Miram's. "But Kreacher has never seen her before, he wonders who she is…"

"Kreacher?" Miram asked, eyebrows raised. "Is that your name?"

Kreacher's ears flattened against his head like a cat's. "Mistress would not want her house being disturbed," he muttered furiously. "Kreacher will get rid of her—"

"G-get away from me!" Miram stammered, stepping back several paces before tripping backwards over the bed. She aimed her wand at the fast-approaching creature. "Stop right there or I'll blow you up!"

The creature froze, staring up at Miram with surprise. He appeared to struggle against some invisible bond, but couldn't move.

"What are you?" Miram demanded, laying back on the dusty bed, still holding her wand up protectively.

"Kreacher only answers to the Black family," he muttered. Once again, Miram got the strong impression that he was talking to himself rather than her. "Kreacher cannot disobey…who is this new intruder, Kreacher wonders?"

"Answer me, or I'll hex you right now!" Miram threatened.

The creature dropped into a ridiculously low bow. In spite of herself, Miram felt her wand arm drop in confusion. "Kreacher lives to serve the most noble and ancient House of Black!" he announced. "Kreacher is a good elf, he has been taking care of Mistress's house…"

"You're a House Elf?" Miram repeated, relaxing a little. She had never seen one in person before—her aunt and uncle hated the idea of anything living in their spotless house.

Kreacher, still bent over in a bow, turned to look up at her balefully. "Who is she, Kreacher wonders?" he muttered, again to himself.

Miram struggled to her feet, pulling a stray lock of hair out of her face. "My name's Miram—this was my father's house—"

"She is lying," Kreacher muttered, still in a bow. "Master Orion never fathered any daughters—"

"Regulus was my father," Miram interrupted loudly.

Kreacher straightened up, unabashedly staring her up and down. "Master Regulus never mentioned a child…" he muttered in fascination.

"I'm looking for Regulus," Miram said bravely.

Kreacher visibly deflated, crumpling into a ball on the dusty floor. Miram stared in bewilderment as the elf began to wail loudly, beating himself with tiny fists on the top of his head. "Kreacher left Master! Kreacher left Master Regulus behind—oh, Kreacher should never have obeyed! Kreacher should have gone back to save him!"

"You know what happened to my father?" Miram practically shouted in order to be heard.

Kreacher let out another wail, oblivious to Miram's questions. "Kreacher is a bad elf!"

"Kreacher, just—shut up!" was all Miram could think to say. Suddenly the wailing stopped, and Kreacher paused in his display of self-hatred, clutching at his silent throat. "Answer me—do you know what happened to Regulus Black?"

Kreacher stared up at Miram with miserable, watery eyes. "Master told Kreacher to go—to take the locket and leave Master behind, that Master would come back home." More tears flooded his lamp-like eyes. "But Master never came! Kreacher should have saved him!"

"What locket?" Miram asked, frowning. "What are you talking about?"

Kreacher shook his head. "Master forbade Kreacher—Kreacher promised not to tell—"

"But I'm his _daughter,_ " Miram insisted. "Look, er, Kreacher—I'm just trying to find out what happened to my father, find out where he is—"

Kreacher beat his tiny fists against the floor, sending puffs of dust into the air. "Don't make Kreacher tell! Kreacher promised not to tell Master Regulus's secrets!"

"Oh my god," Miram muttered, running a hand distractedly through her hair. When she had decided to visit the Black ancestral home, she had been prepared to deal with doxies, boggarts, perhaps even Dark magic. A demented house-elf was not on the list. "Er, well, don't think about it like that," Miram tried. "I'm not asking you to tell me his, er, secrets—just what happened to him."

Kreacher became motionless on the floor. He was silent for a long moment, then finally mumbled, "Master told Kreacher to go—to leave him in the cave—he had to fight off _his_ magic first. Kreacher should have stayed, Kreacher should have protected Master! But Master said Kreacher must destroy the locket, Kreacher must do that before anything else…" Kreacher let out a loud wail, and Miram hastily covered her ears. "But Master is gone!"

"What cave?" Miram shouted. "What locket?"

Kreacher shook his head furiously. "Kreacher will not say! Kreacher promised not to say!"

Miram stared down at the pathetic elf in front of her, torn—she felt the odd urge to comfort him, and yet something about the elf's demeanor repulsed her. She looked around the dusty bedroom again, immaculately preserved from the last fourteen years under a fine layer of dust.

"Fine—fine!" Miram added loudly to be heard over the house-elf's wailing. "I won't ask about it," she added, brushing dust off her clothes. She gave the bedroom one last survey for any corner she hadn't searched, and gave Kreacher a wide berth as she stepped around him to the front door. Thankfully, Kreacher didn't follow her.

The top landing was well-lit by the rising sun, and Miram could see her footprints across the dusty floorboards as though they were covered in snow. She hesitated by the door, eyeing Regulus's warning sign. Quickly she peeled it off, folding the stiff parchment carefully and pocketing it alongside the watch.

The rest of the house was similar to Regulus's bedroom—fine furnishings left abandoned in place, covered in dust and cobwebs. The corridors had seen the worst of the neglect; large ribbons of silk wallpaper were peeling and the floor was cluttered with debris from the creatures that now ran amok in the silent house. Mice scurried away with each step Miram took on the main landing, and the low buzzing of sleeping doxies was present in nearly every room. The house had truly become contaminated, and Miram wondered how on earth the house-elf could stand to live in such a mess. Why didn't he leave, find another member of Black house to serve? It seemed bizarre to Miram for anyone to shut themselves up in a dirty old house, entirely alone, for years.

The drawing room door hung loose in its hinges, weighed down by what appeared to be mild water damage. Miram held her wand out protectively, stepping as lightly as she could get away with. The drawing room had the air of once having been very grand, with handsome cherry panels, large French windows, and matching carved furnishings. Across the sitting area was a door that led to a lady's tea parlor, and opposite that was a smoking room. Dusty boxes still held uncut cigars, and crystal tumblers sat undisturbed in their cabinets. Miram returned to the drawing room and her eyes fell on an enormous embroidered tapestry. Delicate thin lines ran the length of the fabric, connecting names of the Black family members to each other. The direct line ended at two names, one of which had been burned off.

There was no mention of herself anywhere, no official mark connecting Miram to the Black family. For some reason this irritated Miram; here she could get access to the Black house and give orders to its house-elf, and yet Walburga Black had refused to add Miram's name to the tapestry despite knowing Miram was the last member of her bloodline.

Miram turned away from the tapestry in disgust, her attention instead falling on the cabinets nearby. They were all locked, but a simple _Alohomora_ popped them open. These were clearly the Dark artifacts Black had warned her about—the snuffbox wheezed out an irritating powder Miram barely managed to avoid, and a pair of needle-like tweezers ran up her arm, spider-like, and attempted to puncture her skin. Miram settled for levitating the objects she wanted a better look at, distracted by the odd sort of buzzing, whistling, and murmuring most of them seemed to give off. In the far corner of the cabinet was a single yellow, ugly locket. Its center jewel was grimy and covered in dust. Unless Miram was imagining it, the locket seemed to be giving off a loud, constant buzz.

 _Kreacher must destroy the locket, Kreacher must do that before anything else!_

Without really being aware of herself moving, Miram reached into the cabinet and snatched the locket up. Instantly all the whistling and buzzing around her fell silent. The locket was heavy and warm in her hand. She turned it over and attempted to open it, but the clasp wouldn't give, even under a few quick spells.

Miram stuffed the locket into her jeans pocket, glancing over her shoulder as though to make sure no one was watching. She felt on edge, like the house was spying on her. The locket was heavy against her hip, safely hidden away, but Miram was overcome with the wild, sudden urge to get far away from the Black house.

She hurried across the drawing room, her footsteps loud and sure when they had once been tentative and soft. She pushed the drawing room door open and marched down the dimly lit corridor to the front entryway, half expecting to see an army of ghosts waiting to stop her. Miram was almost surprised to see the front landing as empty as ever, but wasted no time marching across its dusty surface toward the heavy front door. The locks clicked into place behind her, and suddenly the panic Miram felt inside the drawing room lifted, like sunlight breaking through fog.

Miram looked back up at the façade of Twelve, Grimmauld Place, frowning. She felt unnerved that the house had somehow gotten inside her head, filling her with an unexplainable sense of dread. No wonder Black had no desire to reclaim his childhood home. It was better left to decay quietly, undisturbed.

On the train ride toward the Leaky Cauldron, Miram could not explain to herself why she had taken the locket without so much as a second thought. It had been a reflex, an instinctive action. She examined it again on the train, frowning. She had no evidence to suggest this was the locket Kreacher had been referring to, but somehow she knew it was. Miram had to stuff it away in her pocket to keep from thinking herself into circles, attempting to retroactively justify taking it. And yet as soon as it was out of her sight, Miram felt the overwhelming urge to take it out again, examine it just a bit further in case she had missed something.

Miram forced her thoughts to think of the other detail Kreacher had given her: a cave. Unfortunately there were likely to be hundreds, if not thousands of caves across Britain, and she had no idea which one she might try searching first.

* * *

Days passed uneventfully. Miram continued to spend most of her time perusing the Great Wizarding Library, occasionally wandering around Diagon Alley or muggle London, bumming cigarettes off of strangers. She had come to a complete standstill—most of the names Black had given her ended with a prison sentence in Azkaban. She doubted whether she could convince the Ministry to let her pay a visit to the Lestranges and ask about Regulus.

July soon turned into August. Miram had written Harry Potter to inform him that there would be a delay in the correspondence from Black—she didn't quite want to just say that talking to Black was a no-go, not before she had a chance to work on that. She mailed the letter the muggle way, hoping the Dursleys wouldn't freak out over it. Then she remembered the way Harry's aunt had slammed the door in her face, and she sent a second letter via wizarding post just in case the muggle woman tore up the first one. Harry wrote back the next day to say that it was fine, no worries.

After a particularly long day doing a whole lot of nothing, Miram stretched out languidly on her bed, fully dressed. She even still had her shoes on. She knew at some point she needed to go shopping for her school things, but with a whole month to go until term, it seemed silly to worry about it now. She vaguely thought about going downstairs for dinner, but her hunger wasn't strong enough to overrule the comfort of the bed. Shortly before four o'clock, there was an incessant knocking at the door, and Miram finally rolled off the bed to go answer it. "I said I don't need any housekeeping today—"

"Where is it?"

Miram was pushed back as Black suddenly entered her room, shutting the door swiftly behind him. Without waiting for an answer, he yanked the curtains shut and began opening drawers to the writing desk, searching between sheets of loose parchment.

"Where's what?" Miram asked, trying to recover from her immense surprise at seeing Black not only in her room, but in England itself. "What are you _doing_ here?"

"The locket, where is it?" Black continued, turning his attention to her trunk.

"Look, I didn't steal it—" she said hastily.

Black straightened up and gave her a dubious look. "Steal-? You didn't give it away, did you?"

"No," Miram said, frowning. "Look, I didn't think it was worth anything to you—you said yourself you wanted nothing to do with the house—"

"Where is it?" Black interrupted. Something about the urgent look on his face was unsettling.

"H-here," Miram stammered, withdrawing the ugly locket from her pocket by its chain. It felt incredibly heavy, almost like it wouldn't come out. "You can have it back, it's really not anything—" she began, but faltered, staring at the ugly necklace in her hands. She felt magnetized to it, and handing it over suddenly seemed silly.

Black held out his hand expectantly. "Miram—"

"No, why should I?" Miram snapped, holding the locket protectively to her chest. "It was technically my father's, so it's mine now—"

"It's Dark Magic," Sirius said sternly, still holding out his hand. "Let me see it—"

"No—"

In the span of just a few seconds, Miram had whipped out her wand and advanced on Black, but he was quicker than her—her wand flew from her fingers and Miram charged at him, unthinking. She was fuelled by the strong need to protect the locket, to keep it safe in her grasp.

It was clear later that Black was trying to avoid hurting her, but Miram attacked him with such fervor—throwing the oil lamps, the chair, even breaking the mirror into a dozen jagged shards—that he didn't have much choice. The locket didn't respond to magic, and so Black had to wrestle it from Miram's grasp by force. This was no easy task as Miram was driven by an invisible possession to keep it from him. They knocked into the wardrobe, the writing desk, knocking the room's contents to the floor with a heavy crash.

Black had her pinned to the floor, just out of reach of the jagged shards of mirror she was attempting to reach. Her limbs were immobilized, and she snarled as her fingers were forced open, dropping the locket onto the floor. Black snatched it up, quickly stuffing it out of sight in his pocket.

A black cloud lifted. The foreign rage that had filled Miram was suddenly gone, leaving an empty confusion in its wake. She didn't get up right away, instead staring at the destruction of her room with a muddled frown. Slowly her eyes landed on Black, who was still pointing his wand at her. Miram pushed herself up slowly, carefully. Her eyes fell on the locket's chain hanging out of Black's pocket, but something about the sight repulsed her now.

Black let out a heavy sigh, a little out of breath, before dropping his wand and helping Miram the rest of the way to her feet. "Are you all right?"

The question seemed to sit inside Miram's head for a long moment before it made sense. "What happened to me?" she asked breathlessly.

Black guided her toward the bed before waving his wand and putting her room back in order. He looked at Miram, frowning. "Have you gotten it open?"

"No."

"Have you worn it?"

Miram shook her head before realizing she couldn't remember—had she? Or had she always carried it protectively in her pocket?

Black was watching her with a face full of concern. "You've carried it with you for days—the locket had likely begun to possess you."

Miram frowned. "How? I mean, I've felt like myself this whole time…"

"Dark Magic creeps in slowly," Black told her, sitting down on the bed next to her. "It was feeding off of you—given enough time…it could have driven you mad, even killed you…"

Miram swallowed the lump in her throat. She was watching Black carefully, suddenly feeling very exposed. It was frightening to consider how easily the locket had gotten into her head, even controlling her mind.

Black ran his hands over his tired face.

"Kreacher told me my father gave him this necklace, telling him to destroy it," Miram told Black slowly.

He looked at her sideways. "Did he tell you why?"

Miram shook her head. "No—he kept going on about keeping secrets, and then he'd beat himself up. And…I don't know why, but something just made me take the locket. Like it was nothing." Her frown deepened. "What _is_ that thing?"

Black shrugged. "I don't know—but if Dumbledore's worried, it must be bad."

"Dumbledore?" Miram questioned, eyebrow raised. "When did you talk to Dumbledore?"

Black looked like he regretted letting that piece of information slip. He hesitated, then said, "Er, well, it looks like I'll be coming back to Hogwarts in September."

Miram felt like a train had suddenly derailed inside her head. "You're _teaching?_ "

"Just part time," Black said dully, as though by answering in the flattest tone possible Miram would lose interest.

"I thought you hated England!" Miram exclaimed. "Why would you come back?"

Black hesitated, clearly thinking something over. "To keep an eye on things," he finally said.

"On what?" Miram pressed.

Black snorted. "You're fourteen—I'm not telling you—"

"But I can probably help!" she interrupted. "Obviously it has something to do with that locket—"

"How d'you-?"

"You said Dumbledore was worried about it," Miram said confidently, turning to face Black directly. "Which means he had to have known about it, possibly where to find it—I know you didn't come all the way to London because you keep an inventory of all the rubbish in that old house. Dumbledore called you here for something—does he want the locket?"

Black sighed, almost defeated by Miram's persistence. "Yes, I imagine he does."

"Why?"

Black shrugged. "He won't tell me."

"D'you think he wants to use it?"

Black shook his head. "No," he said dully. "No, Dumbledore's not the type to use Dark Magic."

"Are you going to give it to him?" Miram asked.

Black frowned at her, like he hadn't considered the option before. "I don't know," he said slowly, frown deepening. "Maybe."

There was a strange silence between them. Each time they had parted ways thus far, Miram was sure it was the last time—and yet here they continued to cross paths, this time more permanently.

"So what're you teaching?" Miram asked to fill the silence that had fallen. "Defense?"

Black straightened up on the bed, taking a deep breath. He looked like the answer pained him a great deal. "Sometimes—your Astronomy professor is taking leave for a while in the New Year, so I'll be filling in there. Substituting."

"Are you, er, qualified to teach?" Miram asked.

Black actually laughed at that, and Miram let out a small, nervous smile. "Just wait until all those parents find out," he said, giving Miram a sideways, humorless smile.

"So who's teaching Defense, then?" Miram asked, absently biting her thumb nail. "Not Lockhart-?"

"No, his name's Remus Lupin," said Black flatly, rubbing his temple as though a headache was forming.

Miram frowned. "That name sounds familiar…"

"He was a friend of mine when we were in school," Black told her dully, absently drumming his fingers against his knee. "We'll be sharing the post—I'll fill in when he has to be away from the school for other obligations."

Miram watched his face carefully. "You don't sound happy about that," she observed.

Black took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

"So it must be serious if you're willing to come all the way back here, to Hogwarts," Miram surmised.

Black got to his feet stiffly, absently scratching the back of his neck before turning to Miram like he just remembered something. "So you're really staying here? All summer?"

Miram gave a half-shrug from the four poster bed. "Er, yeah."

Black frowned at her, looking as though he wanted to say something but thought better of it. "Okay," he finally said, more to himself than to her. He adjusted his weight from one foot to the next. "Right, well, are you hungry? Have you eaten yet?"

Miram couldn't hide the surprise from her face. "Uh…okay," she said, getting to her feet and looking around the room for her bag. She paused, then suddenly turned to Black. "You really want to eat out? Aren't you worried they might…recognize you?" she asked carefully.

Black threw his hands in the air like the decision was beyond him.

Miram studied him for a second longer. "If you're sure," she said hesitantly, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She followed Black down the narrow corridor and downstairs, where Black made a careful beeline for a table nestled in the far corner, almost completely hidden from the rest of the noisy pub.

"So you're teaching," Miram noted, unable to keep the grin off her face as she settled into her seat. "What talked you into that?"

Black was rubbing his temple with his fingers again. "What, you don't think I'd be a good teacher?" he asked in an unfamiliar, light tone.

Miram shrugged, chuckling at the mental image. "Uh, to be honest, it's kind of hard to picture."

Black smiled ruefully at her. "It'll be different—I'll actually have to behave myself."

"Buuuut," Miram added pointedly. "You get to see Harry."

Black still looked like he couldn't quite believe it himself. Tom set their drinks down before waltzing away, shouting something about the Quidditch score over the wireless to a few wizards up at the bar. "Yeah. About that," he said, serious. Miram had expected him to be elated, but for some reason Black still just looked worried. "Harry can't know that I'm his godfather."

"That's fine," Miram said slowly. "It's not my business to tell—"

Black sighed. "Dumbledore wants to keep it all very quiet—there's, er, apparently some things he doesn't want Harry to know yet, and that's one of them."

"But you're not going to, like, ignore him, right?" Miram asked. "I mean, he already knows about you being friends with his parents and everything."

"Yeah, well, I'll just have to do my best to treat him like a regular student."

"But aren't you excited?"

A genuine smile cracked through Black's serious expression. "Yeah," he allowed, nodding. There was a nostalgic look in his eye as his thoughts drifted somewhere Miram could only assume were happier times. She smiled at the sight, and suddenly felt very sorry that Black couldn't have known his own godson. Black was taciturn and even cold at times, but as Miram grew to know him better, she could see that it was a carefully-constructed wall to shield himself.

"So you're totally going to give me an O in Defense, right?" Miram asked, grinning.

Black snorted. "That's up to Remus."

"Okay, how about Astronomy? I hate trying to make those damn star charts all the time."

Black gave her a sly grin, drumming his fingers absently on the table between them. "You think you have it bad—if you had grown up with the Blacks, you'd have to memorize every named star and constellation there is. The Blacks are named after them," he added as an explanation.

"Oh, god," Miram replied in disgust.

"Your name is a star in the constellation Perseus," Black told her.

"No way—"

Black bit at a hang nail absently. "You didn't know?" he asked.

Miram shook her head, adjusting her weight in her seat. "I just thought it was mum's weird version of a Jordanian name—"

"It's likely she gave it to you to follow Black tradition," Sirius told her. "Did she ever tell you?"

Miram shook her head. "I never thought to ask."

"Regulus is the brightest star in Leo," Black continued. "And Latin for 'Little King.'" He smirked at that; Miram assumed it was because of her father's status as the favored son.

"What about your name?"

Black gave a half-shrug. "Sirius is the brightest star in the night sky," he said, as though listing off boring facts. "It's also known as the Dog Star—cultures all over the world attributed Sirius with canines as it's the brightest star of Canis Major. See, look—you're learning Astronomy already—"

"And you thought you weren't cut out for teaching."

"I never doubted my abilities—I think it was you who asked if I was even qualified—"

"I don't remember that."

"It's true."

"Mmmm," Miram replied skeptically, scrunching her face into a frown. Black laughed at that, a little more at ease with himself.

Miram was glad to see that most people didn't recognize Sirius; perhaps they were too distracted by the evolving score of the Puddlemere United and Ballycastle Bats Quidditch game that came through the wizarding wireless at the bar. When they finished their dinner, Miram grabbed an unused Gobstones set from one of the nearby tables. They played until they were yawning more often than speaking, and Black suggested they go to bed. He escorted Miram to her own room, bidding a quiet goodnight before retiring to his own quarters.

Miram laid back on her bed, kicking off her shoes and letting them drop to the floor. She was too tired to change into pajamas, and so she pulled her covers up over herself, and anxiously dreamt that her father had returned to Hogwarts to teach.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter seven:

The weekend before the start of term, Sirius hovered near the doorway of the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor's office. Remus had several boxes piled high on the far wall, and the shelves were already filled with books.

"Er, have a seat," Remus offered, gesturing hastily to the threadbare sofa near the fireplace. He scratched his neck absent-mindedly, careful not to look in Sirius's direction for more than a few seconds.

Sirius hesitated, wondering if it wasn't perhaps too late to call the whole thing off. Teaching was one thing; sharing an office in immediate proximity to Remus Lupin was too much. Sirius forced himself to take a few hesitant steps forward, sitting down stiffly on the edge of the sofa. He sighed, rubbing his hands over the top of his legs several times before looking up and realizing Remus was watching him expectantly.

"Sorry?"

"Tea," Remus repeated.

"Oh. Er…sure. Okay."

Remus poured a mug and handed it to Sirius, their fingers grazing for a split second. Sirius cradled the mug in his hands protectively, looking halfway in the general direction of Remus. He felt like a student waiting in pained anticipation to find out just how severe his punishment was to be. Remus himself hesitated near the fireplace, half moving toward the sofa and half stepping aside. Finally he settled on dragging a trunk nearby and sitting across from Sirius.

"I, er, have a copy of the first unit lesson plans for you to review," Remus told him. "The full moon lands at the end of the second week in September."

Sirius nodded to indicate his understanding.

"You are, of course, welcome to use this office as you need—"

Sirius cleared his throat. "Dumbledore gave me a different one on the sixth floor."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Okay. Well, good. I'll give you the password, though, just in case."

"Right."

There was another stilted silence.

"When do you take over for Aurora?"

"Around Christmas," was the short reply. Sirius tapped his heel anxiously against the floor. He didn't know how to be around Remus anymore. A relentless itch was developing on the back of his neck, and Sirius had to fight the urgent desire to explode.

Remus nodded, pursing his lips for a moment. "So…are you moving back? To England?" he asked after a moment. "Or are you just coming back when you have teaching duties?"

Sirius swallowed a sip of tea hard. He glanced around Remus's office in its half-completed state so he didn't have to look at its owner. "I don't know…I haven't really decided."

Another silence. It was exactly four days before James and Lily died that Sirius had last seen or heard from Remus. Not after he had been arrested, and certainly not in the nine and a half years after he had been released from Azkaban. He had played out how their reunion would go over and over in his head, but this—sharing a teaching post at Hogwarts—had never made it into the fantasy.

"You know, I…" Remus began. Sirius looked over at him to continue, but Remus had lapsed into silence, staring at the empty fireplace.

"What?" Sirius prompted quietly.

"No, it doesn't matter," Remus said hastily, waving a hand distractedly.

"What?" Sirius repeated, more sternly this time.

Remus sighed. "I was against the whole thing about the Order tracking you down—"

"They— _what_?"

"Years ago, when you first left England—" Remus explained, waving a dismissive hand like it wasn't at all unusual to be tracked by a secret organization dedicated to fighting Dark wizards. "The Order wasn't exactly an organization anymore, but most of its members still offered to work for Dumbledore when needed—Dumbledore was, er, rather curious where you had gone to, you see. So a few people who worked for the Ministry offered to track you down, and—er—keep tabs on you for a time." He looked up at Sirius apologetically. "That's how Dumbledore knew how to find you so quickly—and he knew you still wanted Harry, so I think that's what he used to convince you to come back."

"So you knew about this whole thing?" Sirius asked testily. "About him practically blackmailing—"

"No," Remus said quickly, eager to absolve himself. "No, I had no idea—"

"So you just thought it would be grand to share a teaching post?"

Remus sighed. "No," he said again, this time slowly and carefully. "Dumbledore said it was very important for you to come back to England, that's all—I think he was waiting for your reaction before telling the Order anything further."

Sirius felt his eyebrows rising further with each word. He was irritated to learn that Dumbledore had been spying on him for years, but not surprised. "So… what?" Sirius asked dully. He had spent too many years being demonized to feel angry at Remus's revelation. "Did he think I was trying to find Voldemort or something?"

"No," Remus said slowly. "No, he pretty much accepted the Wizengamot's decision to clear you."

"Did you?" Sirius asked idly before he could stop himself.

Remus dropped his gaze.

"You know, don't answer that," Sirius added quickly just as Remus had opened his mouth to speak. He pinched the bridge of his nose to fight the headache that was forming there. "It doesn't matter."

Remus ran a hand over his gold eyes tiredly. "Of course it matters," he muttered.

Sirius took a deep breath, looking around the office, taking note of his escape routes. He hadn't meant for their conversation to go this far.

"I don't…know what to think, even now," Remus continued.

"You don't know if you think I'm a murderer?" Sirius paraphrased skeptically. He could feel his guard—which he had allowed to falter around Remus upon coming back—rising up with rapid speed.

Remus looked up at him. "You did kill Peter."

Sirius took a deep, shaky breath. He looked at Remus warily, but all he saw was a carefully-guarded mask. This was his answer: all else aside, Remus considered him a murderer. Sirius supposed technically he was, but he had hoped that the circumstances surrounding it all would have meant something. Sirius nodded silently, unable to come up with a good counter-argument. "Yeah," was the short reply.

"So sometimes I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about it all," Remus added, a slight coolness to his voice now. "I don't think you deserved to go to Azkaban over it, once it was obvious you weren't the Secret Keeper—"

"You know, it's fine," said Sirius roughly, getting to his feet. "You don't have to explain it to me—"

"Sirius—"

Sirius set his half-empty mug on Remus's desk and found the folder of lesson plans with his name written on it. "I realize that we have to maintain some level of civility if we're working together, but you don't have to explain to me why you don't trust me," Sirius added sharply. "I didn't come back to Hogwarts to beg your forgiveness or your friendship, and I doubt you feel you need mine, either—I came here for Harry's sake. That's all. So if you feel like you need to absolve yourself of something, don't bother—you're ever Remus the good boy, and I'm just…" Sirius waved his hand. "Whatever. Read the _Daily Prophet_ if you want to pick something out." He offered Remus a sarcastic half-wave before shutting the office door and heading down the empty corridors. His footsteps echoed in the silence, which felt suffocating. Had these halls always been so long?

Sirius pushed past the heavy doors and marched across the courtyard, quickening his pace to get as far away from the school as he could. He was sorely tempted to head to the Three Broomsticks for a drink, but too many people would recognize him there. Instead he found his feet carrying him toward the far side of the lake, toward the spot he had frequently haunted in his school days. The enormous lakeside boulder was still there, though the water level was further out these days. Sirius climbed onto the top, settling himself on its mossy surface. The school was completely hidden by forest from this spot, giving the feeling of real solitude.

He shouldn't be feeling so disappointed—he had known exactly how Remus felt over ten years ago. Remus didn't interfere with Sirius's arrest, hadn't come to rescue him from Azkaban, and had certainly maintained a flawless silence for the nine or ten years Sirius spent away from the wizarding world. He hated it—he hated that he cared—he hated that Remus so obviously didn't.

Sirius pulled his last pack of muggle cigarettes from his pocket and lit one with the tip of his wand. He took a few deep drags, exhaling the grey smoke through his nose. When the lightheadedness kicked in, Sirius took a steadying breath, staring gloomily out across the silent lake.

He needed to get over it. No one had come looking for him for ten years, and just because Dumbledore needed him now, it didn't mean anything had really changed.

"Look," came an unexpected voice suddenly.

Sirius jumped so hard he nearly fell from the boulder. He whipped around, heart beating furiously against his chest, to see Remus stepping carefully over tree roots and loose stones as he approached from the forest. Remus stopped when he was several meters away, his hands deep in the pockets of his trousers.

"Go away," Sirius muttered, ignoring how childish he sounded.

"We obviously have a lot to talk about—"

Sirius laughed coldly at that. "You're telling me," he said sarcastically. "But I think you're about twelve years too late—"

"Look, what was I supposed to do?" Remus demanded, betraying the first hints of anger. "Lily and James were dead, Peter was dead—Dumbledore himself gave evidence to the Ministry that you were the Secret Keeper—"

"Let me ask you something," Sirius interrupted. "Do you remember in second year, when we cornered you about the lycanthropy?"

Remus sighed, turning toward the lake so he didn't have to look at Sirius.

"Do you?"

"Yes, of course I do—"

"And you remember what we told you? About how long we had known—"

"Sirius—"

"No, this is important," Sirius overrode him. "Six months, right? Six months we knew you were a werewolf."

Remus looked back at Sirius, frowning and clearly annoyed. "So?"

" _So,_ " Sirius continued from his place on the rock. "We gave you the benefit of the doubt first, didn't we? And even when we finally cornered you, what did we say—"

"This isn't relevant—"

"We _said,_ " Sirius interrupted loudly. "That just because we _didn't understand,_ it didn't meant you weren't still our friend—we gave you a chance to explain—"

"What did you want me to do?" Remus all but shouted. "I was halfway across England when it happened—even if I had gone to the Ministry, do you really think they would have taken me seriously? Your childhood friend and a werewolf? I know you can't argue that you would have done anything differently if our places were switched—you obviously thought I was the spy—why else switch to Peter?"

Sirius flicked his half-finished cigarette roughly into the lake and rounded on Remus. "I can forgive you for thinking I was the spy—I can even forgive you for letting them cart me off to Azkaban without a trial—but what about _three years later,_ Remus, when they released me?"

Remus looked away, agitated. It was becoming clear that he regretted coming down to the lake. Remus had always hated arguing, mostly because he had a temper almost as explosive as Sirius's when one was able to coax it out.

"Y'know," Sirius continued baitingly. "When everyone found out I was _innocent?"_

"What do you want me to say?" Remus shouted.

"Tell me what happened—tell me why you abandoned me—"

" _You_ were abandoned? Are you serious? You dug your own grave by being stupid enough to go after Peter by yourself without talking to anyone first—I was the one who was left out of the Secret Keeper business—I was the one even Lily and James thought was the spy—"

"Oh, and I bet that was real rough on you," Sirius said waspishly. "'Oh no, Lily, James and Sirius think I'm the spy!' Do you know how many people think I'm a Death Eater and a murderer? A traitor to my best friend?"

"I thought you didn't care what anyone else thought," Remus snapped.

"I don't!" Sirius shouted. "I care about what you think!"

There was a ringing silence.

Sirius turned to glare out over the lake, instantly regretting letting that last comment slip. He pulled out another cigarette for something to do with his hands, practically sucking it down to get the nicotine into his brain as fast as possible.

"What happened?" Remus asked after a minute, his voice back to normal if not a little unsteady. "That day?"

Sirius took another long drag, letting the smoke billow around his face like a veil before blowing it away. He considered not telling Remus out of spite, but then what would that accomplish? Hadn't he always wanted the chance to explain to his old friend what really happened? He took another hard drag off his cigarette. "That night…" he began slowly, absently scratching up the moss on the rock next to him so he didn't have to look at Remus. "I had arranged to check on Peter, to make sure he was still safe." He brought the cigarette to his lips a third time as the memories flashed in his mind's eye, threatening to take him back there. "There was no sign of a struggle, nothing. He was just…gone. Something was wrong. I went straight to James and Lily's…" He cleared his throat roughly, hesitating. "Well, so after that, I decided to go for Peter. You can argue that it was stupid or foolish, but you have to remember that my sentence was already set—I don't think anyone would have believed me, even then… Anyway, I cornered him in London, on a muggle street." Sirius took a steadying breath, rubbing his brow at the headache that was forming there. "He yelled for the whole street to hear that I'd betrayed them—I was trying to get a clear shot of him, but there were just so many muggles in the way." In his mind's eye, he could see the billowing dark cloud of dust surrounding him, and taste the iron of spilled blood on the back of his tongue. "Finally he blew apart the street with the wand behind his back, killing everyone within twenty feet of himself."

There was a heavy silence. Sirius finished his cigarette and toyed with the filter absently between his fingers. "I don't know if he was trying to kill me, too, or if it was just part of a clever plan to fake his death—well, Peter was never an expert at Charms…" Sirius took a steadying breath and glanced sideways at Remus, who was listening with rapt attention.

"How did he die?" Remus asked carefully.

Sirius turned back to look over the lake, squinting in the sunlight. "You want the real version, or the official report?"

"The real one, obviously—"

"I just let him die," Sirius said flatly. He gave a half-shrug as he turned back to his filter. "He had injured himself pretty badly when he blew up the road—I could have saved him, but I just…watched him die. So I guess that's kind of like killing him myself."

Remus raised his eyebrows. "That's not the same thing at all—"

Sirius scoffed. "Yes it was—listen very carefully— _I could have saved him_. He would have lived if I had done something." Sirius shook his head, looking out over the lake. "I even considered smashing his skull in to expedite the process. If he hadn't done it to himself, I would have done it for him—"

"That still doesn't make you a murderer—"

"Are you trying to convince me or yourself?" Sirius interrupted.

Remus looked angry at the insinuation. "All this time, you've led everyone to believe—"

"I'm responsible for the deaths of three friends and twelve muggles," Sirius cut in. "How I see myself is my business—but you _really_ thought I blew him up? Killed all those people?"

Remus threw his hands up in frustration. "Well, it wasn't like you were telling anyone otherwise—"

"Yeah, because I had loads of people just lining up to ask me for my side—" Sirius interrupted sarcastically.

"You did! Everyone from the Ministry, the reporters—"

"I didn't want to talk to them—"

Remus snorted. "That's the stupidest thing I've heard—"

"You don't get it," Sirius groaned, too tired with arguing to raise his voice again. "I don't care what the Ministry thinks about me, and while it's annoying sometimes, I also don't really care what the general public thinks about me, either. I cared about what you thought—what Dumbledore, the Order—what you lot thought, and I got my answer when not a single one of you tried to get me out of Azkaban, or when none of you said a single word to me when I got out."

Remus took a deep breath and let it out through his nose. "I thought you were a murderer," he said slowly, carefully. He ran his hands through his hair, which was already starting to grey. "Obviously I was wrong, but I'm not sorry that I couldn't have known that, because you refused to tell anyone otherwise—"

"Look," Sirius interrupted, scooting to the edge of the boulder and jumping down. He brushed dirt off his pants and fixed Remus with a level gaze. "It doesn't matter, anymore—we don't have to pretend like we're friends. We just work together, now, that's all—"

"Sirius—"

"It's not like you have anything else to say to me, right?" Sirius asked testily.

Remus glared at him, sighing. He looked as though he had a great deal to say, but then he said, "No, I guess not."

"Great," Sirius replied flatly. "Then I'll see you at the staff meeting tomorrow."


End file.
